


Crossing The Rubicon

by Tyranno



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Characters Added As They Appear - Freeform, For Want of a Nail, Gen, I change this fic's title so much, Original Character(s), Temporary Character Death, i cant believe i actually finished this fic, vague family feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4461017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't Raza who kidnapped Tony all those years ago in Afghanistan. It was Ra's Al Ghul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this mainly on a whim, so even though I've planned for more chapters I may abandon it, sorry in advance.
> 
> I try hard to finish everything, though. 
> 
> Assume all unmentioned events happened exactly how they did in the movies.

Something was wrong with the room he wakes up in.

It wasn't not that he doesn't recognise it; Tony would be the first to admit his lifestyle didn't exactly lend itself to comprehensible memories. Actually, the entirety of whatever happened the day before was a complete mystery. A bright mash of colour and sound—and a whole lot of pain. It was not exactly how parties usually ended, but hey, variety is the spice of life.

It wasn't even that he felt like he'd been run over; several times in fact. With some kind of tank. His chest felt the worst, sort-of like someone had replaced his ribs with barbed wire. His breathing came short and painful. He admitted that's pretty strange.

Was it the restraints?

It was probably the restraints.

Tony tugged hard, wriggled about, but all he ended up doing was feeling stupid. He had not even gotten the satisfaction of bruising—the leather restraints were made to hold people.

He glanced around. The room was wide and whitish-green, windowless and clinical. A dark crack ran up the corner of one wall. The light flickered off and on. A heart-rate monitor beeped. Somewhere, he heard something dripping. Tony was hit by the alarming thought that it was like the bit in movies where the protagonist finds out his entire life was a construct to deal with the death of a loved one. He shook his head sharply.

Tony scooted himself upwards, as far as the restraints allowed. The pain in his chest sharpened, and he took a moment to breathe before looking around more.

There was not much else to see. An IV bubbled quietly next to him. The heart-rate monitor had his blood pressure as well, but he had no idea what the numbers meant. There was nothing else. Not even a bedside table to put flowers on, no chairs. The floor was a dusty grey. There was a ringer for a nurse, but after a few moments of flailing he realised he couldn't reach it.

He sunk back into his pillows.

Hadn't he been in Afghanistan? Was he still there? He certainly wasn't in Stark Tower's Infirmary, that was for sure. He didn't know about Afghanistan's hospitals, but they didn't usually have private rooms.

Whatever.

Tony's head pounded solidly. He was pretty sure he'd figure it all out when he woke up again.

It was a long time before anybody came to check on him

 

*

 

The door slammed open with a bang, bouncing off the plaster wall.

Tony's eyes flew open and he jerked awake. He twisted around to catch a glimpse of the door, and the person standing there.

The boy was young and haughty, high cheek bones and sharp eyes. His dark hair stood up in soft tufts. He stood motionless in the doorway, a knife in his fingers. He couldn't be more than nine.

“Hey,” Tony smiled weakly. “Are you gonna let me go? I need a pee.”

“I'm not your servant. I'm here to take you to my Grandfather.” His voice was rich but thickly accented. The boy's eyes narrowed and he rolled the knife in his hands. The edge glinted wickedly.

The boy walked over, knife raised, and for a moment Tony thought he was going to stab him, but he just sliced the leather cleanly.

“Oh, good. How much do I owe him? It was nice of him to…” Tony trailed off. He was in a kind of hospital, which meant he'd been hurt. Presumably the boy's Grandfather was like, the main doctor? Or the only doctor?

The boy smiled wickedly, which was more than a little unsettling. Everything about the boy was vaguely unsettling, actually. His shockingly blue eyes looked out of place on such a dark face, and so milky-pale that if his gaze wasn't so sharp, Tony might have thought him blind. And the way he handled that knife… Tony leaned back a little bit.

The boy finished slicing the restraints and stood back. “Can you walk?”

“Uh, probably,” Tony winced, cradling his chest. “What happened?”

“One of your rocket propelled grenades went off. The shrapnel would have pierced your heart if not for the electromagnet my Grandfather's surgeons grafted into your chest.” The boy opened the door and waited only slightly impatiently for him to limp outside. The hallway was pretty similar to the room he'd been in. Still no windows. The air tasted of earth.

“An electromagnet, huh?” Tony rubbed his face. “I guess I do owe him a lot. Where exactly are we?”

The boy said nothing.

Tony raised an eyebrow and tried again. “Hello? Are we still in Afghan?”

The boy's gaze flickered away, trailing the edges of the wall.

“So who's your Grandfather?” Tony stumbled, and managed to catch himself. The boy didn't even glance at him. “Is he like...” Tony huffed, “an award winning surgeon or…?”

“I think it would be better to ask my Grandfather these questions.” The boy looked at him, finally. His gaze wasn't so much sharp as… wary. His pale eyes flickered over Tony's face, before looking away again.

“Don't you know the answers?” Tony leant against the wall, surprised.

“I do not know how much my Grandfather wishes you to know.”

“Oh.” Tony's gaze flattened. His image of a kindly old surgeon with a scrappy, fierce grandson vanished. He was dealing with some other kind of man.

“Keep moving.” The boy ordered sharply.

Tony nodded, pushing off the wall. His chest ached. Whatever kind of man the boy's Grandfather turned out to be, he was confident he could stuff his mouth full of gold until he made it back to America at least. Money did make the world go round, after all.

 

*

 

Keeping confident is one skill Tony has always been thankful he had.

Even his genius-level intellect, on its own it would have only gotten him a low-level job unappreciated and underpaid while some CEO made a pretty penny. His charisma was a definitely useful and his ability to drink anyone under the table won him a lot of bets—but confidence was king.

But standing before the boy's Grandfather was like standing in front of the jaws of a dragon.

Tony recognised the techniques in play. It had all carefully orchestrated. There was nowhere for him to sit, so he stood awkwardly before his throne. The only light was directly above them, and Tony's eyes were constantly drawn to the flicker of movement in the shadows, the soldiers just out of sight. It was cold too, a light touch around his ankles.

Even though Tony knew there was a definite chance he'd survive this (a hostage like him was more valuable alive than dead) he found it hard not to shy away a little. He stood firmly, glaring upwards.

The man was… if not handsome, then definitely distinguished. He had a sharp jaw, fringed with a dark beard, the kind only the really evil villains had. His eyes were much darker than his grandson's, and in the low light it was impossible to see where the iris ended and the pupil began. He couldn't be very old—the strips of white at his temples seemed more like an afterthought than anything else.

The man said nothing, watching Tony like a wolf with a rabbit.

“So.” Tony said. “Thank you for saving my life and all. How much will it cost for you to release me?”

The man watched him. And smiled. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Stark?”

Tony shook his head.

“My name is Ra's Al Ghul. Does that mean anything to you?”

Tony shook his head again, shrinking back despite himself.

“Hm.” He knitted his fingers together. “Perhaps that is for the best.” The man leant back against his throne, eyes fixed on Tony. Tony wondered if he even blinked. “Regardless. It is not your money I want from you, Mr. Stark. It is your intelligence. Do you understand?”

Tony felt his blood run cold. “Yes.”

“Good. My grandson will overlook your work.” Ra's almost looked pleased, but the look was overwhelmed in an instant by a sharp glare. “Do not try to cheat me, Mr. Stark.”

Tony was all to happy to agree.

 

*

 

The boy hung around like a bad smell.

It would have been easier to work without the kid's piercing gaze sharpening on him every time he wrote something down. He read every note and scoured every design, even if it was probably complete nonsense to the kid. It meant that Tony had to stop every five seconds for his work to be checked. Because apparently the boy was specifically charged with being a complete pain in the ass.

The fifteenth time this happened Tony pushed away from the desk with a huff, moving around the room restlessly. The boy followed him with his eyes.

“Where are you going?” The boy asked.

“It's stifling!” Tony huffed. “I can't work with you breathing down my neck the whole time.”

The boy's eyes narrowed. “I need to make sure you're not trying to escape.”

“I'm not! I'm pretty sure your grandad'd just send a host of ninjas after me the second I breathed out of line!” Tony slumped down on a work bench. “I'm just trying to work as hard as I can.”

“You're lying. The reason you're upset is because you're not given free reign and thus, you can't build a weapon to use against us.” The boy slipped onto the work surface, glancing down at the rough blueprints.

Tony's lips thinned. The kid had hit the nail on the head there. Still, there was always plan B. “What's your name?”

The boy glared at him. “My name is Damian Al Ghul. I am the Ibn al Xu'ffasch.”

“How come someone so young is babysitting me?”

The boy shifted defensively. “I am more than qualified to keep you in line. There is forty ways I could kill you with my bare hands in an instant, fifty if you don't resist in time.” His eyes narrowed. “The only reason I'm not doing something more useful is that I am the only member of the league who speaks fluent English at this base, excluding my Grandfather and my mother.”

Tony nodded, trying to look likeable. He moved back to the drawing board. He didn't want to press his luck, and the information he'd gotten could be useful. Not sure how, but he'd work on it.

Damian shuffled to one side to let him write, eyes following every stroke of his pencil.

Damian would be a hard one to shake off, but Tony was pretty confident he could manage it.

It was a long silence.

Damian was the first to break it. “I don't see why you even want to go back.”

“Hm?” Tony lifted his head.

“They mock you. You're the merchant of death, and they do not mean it as praise. They call you flippant, slow-witted, greedy.” Damian folded his legs. “Nothing but scorn awaits you in America.”

Tony sighed. “It's home.”

“It doesn't have to be,” Damian muttered. “I certainly would not put up with it.”

“What can I do?” Tony sighed again, melodramatically. “It's not like I can just cut all the nasty reporter's heads off.”

“You could.” Damian looked very serious.

Tony nearly shuddered, but maintained his uneasy grin. “No, you see, they arrest you for things like that.”

Damian grumbled and looked away.

Tony was pretty glad that the kid was being quiet again. He'd definitely need the kid's help—the thin lines of scars that ridged the kid's arms made it clear he didn't bluff—but he was hard work. He needed to win him over carefully. And it wouldn't happen if Ra's attention was constantly on him for under-performing.

It felt like hours passing.

Tony slipped into a working daze. His thoughts filled with lines, calculations, the sharpness of the pencil, the angle and width of the curves, even the weight of the boy's eyes were lost into the concentration of his genius. He had decided to reproduce one of Jericho’s earlier designs, they looked more impressive but would be sure to fail. It would buy him time, and that was what he desperately needed right now.

But he found himself adding flourishes—things he'd always had to cut away to keep the price or the fuel efficiency good—and suddenly he was writing faster than—

Damian's finger landed on the page, breaking his concentration.

Tony looked up into the boy's face, dark eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Yeah?”

Damian's gaze flickered around the page. “Add a key for your short-hands.” He mumbled.

Tony glanced down, realising he'd slipped into note form in his excitement. He was treating it like a game. Something distasteful rose in his throat. He nodded grimly. “Aye aye, Captain.”

 

*

 

Damian stuck close, escorted him to and from his bedroom/cell when he complained of being tired, fetched his meals when he was hungry, even hung outside the bathroom when he needed the loo. Despite the close quarters, Tony had only managed to squeeze out the smallest bits of information. Ra's Al Ghul's aim was the “balance” of the world, achieved by killing off large numbers of people, a regular B-movie evil guy. They were somewhere in Arabia, from the Arabic Damian snarled at whatever staff they passed. Damian was eight years old.

Damian's mother, Talia, appeared every once in a while, illustrious and beautiful beyond compare. Hair like ink and eyes like diamonds. Barely twenty with a eight-year old son—Tony didn't have to be a genius to work that math out. He had a bitter taste in his mouth ever since. He really was in a different place.

Damian had gotten sick of sitting around and practised his Katas behind Tony, making just enough noise to be slightly distracting but not enough to call him out on it.

Sometimes, when Tony was sure the kid was distracted enough in a complex set, he'd watch him. The kid was fast, not to mention deadly. He moved fluidly, easily. Like a tiger.

Scary kid.

 

*

 

“You're restless.” Damian concluded, folding his legs.

“Well, can you blame me?” Tony leant back in his chair. “I've done nothing but work for what, a month? Two? It's killing my creative spirits.”

Damian raised and eyebrow and pushed off the drawing board. “Come.”

Tony stood up, stretching.

"Here. Copy me." Damian stretched his arms out like wings, bringing one down in a swing and bring the other around in a punch. He moved slow, but confidently. 

Tony watched carefully. He copied hesitantly, moving jerkily.

"It doesn't have to be perfect," Damian said, irritably, half to himself. "It's just to loosen you up."

"Ah, okay." Tony mumbled.

 

*

 

It was an accident, really.

The American slept long hours. Damian was much more used to sleeping in chunks, and the nights were a lot longer without anything to do. But the American just got grouchy if he woke him up, and worked much slower, so he wandered the base aimless.

He hadn't been here long enough to know all of its ins and outs. He knew where all the basics were, but this base was old. Complicated.

He hadn't been looking for the labs.

From the outside, they didn't look much like labs. A grubby, peeling yellow door, even when opened it was almost too dark to see inside.

Almost.

Damian closed the door quickly behind him, blinking hard. The only light was green, spilling from the glass orbs set carefully on each table.

He couldn't really believe what he was seeing. He stumbled forwards, hesitantly, hand reached inches from the glass.

His fingers pressed against the chilled glass. The thing inside didn't stir.

Damian knew he hadn't been born. He knew he was developed in an artificial uterus. He knew this. He knew. And yet…

Damian couldn't move. He was transfixed.

His fingers slid down the glass, heart beating rapidly in his chest.

The thing's head was warped, half-developed, huge eyes closed. Its hands and feet were tiny, clutched close to its chest.

The thing was labelled. Damian, 1.3, dated a week after his birth.

A replacement, should the original fail.

 

*

 

Damian was different that morning, Tony decided.

He was quiet. Well, Damian was always quiet, but in the months Tony's been guessing and trying to figure out the kid's moods, he could tell it was a different kind of silence. It wasn't not the usual sullen silences or almost calm quiet. It was the silence of a ghost.

Tony wanted to ask what was wrong, but Damian was not the kind of person to talk about his emotions. The boy liked to pretend he didn't have them.

So Tony worked, making sure his arm or his stationary didn't cover the blueprints so Damian didn't get annoyed when he looks over his shoulder, and that was all he could do. He wished he could do more. Despite himself, he had started to like the stuck-up brat he was paired with. Maybe a sort of branch of Stockholm syndrome, he didn't know.

The kid stuck closer than usual. Occasionally he would do some half-hearted katas, but they never lasted very long. He always dropped back onto the desk, a far-away look in his eyes.

“What's America like?” Damian asked, suddenly.

Tony blinked. “It's uh. Well, they usually let you go outside, for one.”

Damian gave him a flat look. “Hilarious.”

Tony grinned. “Yeah. But, seriously, it's… Well, there's a lot more shops than you see around here. Nobody really knows each other. Nobody's really starving, either, at least not in public.”

Damian watched him carefully, so Tony continued.

“The sky's just as blue. There's less trees and grass, a lot more buildings. And most of the buildings don't look like they were built in a day...”

“What do the buildings look like?” Damian asked.

“Well...” Tony struggled. It was hard to describe a skyscraper to someone who'd never seen one before. Big? Grey? “It's like, if you had a very sharp metal sword, and it was absolutely huge. Like, enormous. And people lived in it.”

Damian raised an eyebrow and he gave the impression of smiling without actually smiling. “I'd like to see that,” He said.

“Yeah,” Tony nodded. “Maybe someday.”

 

*

 

The next day, Damian was gone.

The guy that replaced him was old, and didn't speak any English. It was no use asking him, miming didn't get anywhere. Tony settled down, tried not get into a fight with the old guy, and tried not to think about where Damian went.

He tried not to worry. It didn't really work.

 

*

 

Damian came back bleeding.

Bandages spread over his chest, and he moved awkwardly. Tony was about to ask when Damian shot him a sharp look that stopped him in his tracks.

Tony leant lightly against the drawing board. “I'm glad you're back.”

Damian nodded.

Tony worked in the silence. It was a little too sad for his liking, but Damian seemed to want to look anywhere but at him.

It was dark. The flickering light made it hard to see the board in front of him, but Tony didn't really want to see it anyway. He may have been known to work in frenzy, but it was just too much too often. He never had a break, except to sleep, and his creative muse was long dead. He stretched his arms over the drawing board, breathing heavily.

Damian shifted.

A hand landed on Tony's shoulder.

Tony looked up into reddened eyes.

Damian had tears in his eyes, face twisted into half disgust half desperation.

“Were you serious when you said you wanted to escape?”

 

*

 

The night they chose was perfect.

Pulling the plug on the main power source, coupled with confiscating all night-vision goggles save for two—perfection.

But like all plans…

Damian whipped around on his heel, slamming his foot into the attacker's windpipe. He flipped up, slicing the necks of two stunned league members, sweeping the legs out from under a third. The fifth tried to raise his gun but was headless before he could aim. Damian's sword met bloody with the sixth.

Tony could only stare.

It was like watching an animal tear another apart, quick and ruthless. Without a single pause, hesitation, Damian opened wounds and sliced jugulars. His blade glided like an extension of him. Tony couldn't look away.

Damain glanced back at him, eyes wide and frightened. “Leave!” He yelped.

Tony took a small step backwards.

“I can't—” Damian snarled, leaping over a swung sword and plunging his own into the attacker's eye “—fight with you standing there!”

Tony glanced at the door. They were so close.

Damian ducked under a swinging axe, slicing up through the soft flesh of the man's jaw. He barely had time to pull his sword away before another came crashing past his ear. Damian spat angrily, slashing at the man's eyes.

“Leave!” Damian screamed, “I'm right behind you!”

Tony leapt into an unsteady run, opening the door with a squeal of metal.

The fresh air kissed his face, warm and clean. He stumbled out into the bright, beautiful sand, the endless sky like a blessing to his eyes.

The explosion behind him sounded like the earth being torn apart.

The world went white.

 

*

 

They found Tony wandering the desert, half-dead.

Back red and peeling, gaze wondering and unfocused. Mumbling.

“Come on,” Pepper said, softly. “Let's get you home.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, Damian vs. Street Kid is always going to be a knock out, hands-down. He might draw the fight out, because nobody wants to see a fight just get steamrolled, but there's a big difference between street fighting and martial arts. MA is always going to be better.

Damian woke up slowly. 

His mind felt thick and heavy. Half of his face was numb, and he tried to move his mouth but his tongue flopped out onto the dusty wood beneath him. He had been drooling. A lot. 

He thought about moving, but his body felt like it was someone else's, a limp, dead thing. It was an effort to breathe. 

Damian smelled sand. It was a crisp, old smell. He tried to close his mouth, but gave up after a few seconds. 

There was a bump, and his body jerked upwards, falling hard. His head rang. 

He could see, but it took a while for his brain to grind out meaning from it. A dusty, sandy road rolled under them, featureless and stark. Small scraggly shrubs pockmarked the land, little molehills with tufts of yellowing grass. 

It took a long time for his hearing to return. 

It was muffled, pressed against the rolling wood. Sounds vibrated through his skull, tingling his skin. He couldn't hear anything from his other ear.

In fact, his whole right side of his body felt tight and hot. It was like his skin was stretched taut, and any slight movement would tear himself apart. 

His breathing rasped through his head, too loud. 

Time passed. 

He watched the road slip out behind them, straight and clear. He wondered where he was. 

It wasn't a league convoy. He couldn't see any other wagons, and the artillery travelled at the back. Even if they'd found out about… 

About? 

About… Stark… Damian squinted, trying to drag the thought onwards. The need to keep alert drilled into him since birth wouldn't let him rest. Even if they'd found out about trying to escape with the American… he'd be travelling with the prisoners, and there was no way they would leave him to sleep this long. If it had been really bad, they tied the prisoners to the back of the wagon and let their feet drag along the ground. 

Damian closed his mouth, tasting dirt. 

As he moved, his muscles sparked pain along his side. 

Damian groaned, trying to lift himself up. Pain lanced through his ribs, taking his breath from his lungs. 

He struggled, gasping like a fish out of water. Panic prickled like glass in his chest, he couldn't move, he—

Someone appeared above him, blotting out the sun. 

It took a few irritating moments for his eyes to focus. 

She was old, her face like old leather, wrinkles deep enough to be scars. Her wispy grey hair was braided and belled, hanging down her back in one long, knotted tail. She had a kind face, and she knelt beside him, smoothing her sari. 

Damian tried to roll away, but a hand landed on his shoulder and he froze.

She smiled. “I'm sorry, did I startle you? It's been a long time, my Mani.” 

She spoke Hindi, and it took a long moment for Damian to translate it. His mouth moved, breathing shakily. 

“W-who…?” Damian managed. 

Her smile wavered. “Of course. Mani would be twenty by now.” 

Damian squinted up at her. 

She cupped his cheek with her warm hand, running a thumb under Damian's good eye. “You're just like my Mani, though. Such an unlucky child.”

Damian's breath came shaky. 

She fished a few pills from inside her dark orange robes, pressing them against Damian's lips. “If you move around too much, you'll reopen your wounds.”

Damian opened his mouth, swallowing the little pills. 

His mind shut off in chunks, his eyes first, the panic in his chest winked out, and then the feeling in his limbs. 

The last thing he knew was the swirl of Hindi, too soft and too fast to understand, warm against his troubled thoughts.

 

*

 

When he woke again, his mouth was dry and head ached. 

Damian levered himself off the floor and immediately regretted it. 

He gripped the side as his head span, eyes screwed shut. His stomach churned unpleasantly. 

When he could see straight, he pushed himself up. 

The air tasted like grease, and noise filled his good ear. He leant over the edge of the wagon. They were on the outskirts of a city, the old woman was talking to another woman in Hindi, too fast for Damian to translate. His head still felt sluggish and heavy.

Damian shuffled around in the back of the wagon, trying to get comfortable. There were piles of bedsheets tied around him in heaps, smelling clean and fresh. He leant his head on the edge of the wagon, pulling one around him. 

“Ah, Anan, who's this little fellow?” The other old woman moved towards him, grinning. Her teeth were black from tobacco. 

“He's my nephew,” The old woman who'd saved him lied, moving beside her friend. She patted Damian's hair gently, her hands spreading warmth through his cold head. 

“What'd happen? Landmine?” The other old woman didn't move closer, trying to peer around Damian's bandages. 

“Yes.” The first moved towards the front of the wagon. “He's probably tired, poor thing.”

“Of course,” The other old woman moved back, “I'll move the cart, one moment. You're both eager to get on, I imagine.”

The first laughed, a deep, rich sound that didn't quite match her form. It was a young woman's laugh. 

Damian pushed himself up, favouring his left side. He dragged himself onto the pile of sheets, breathing heavily. His joints ached viciously, skin stinging.

The horizon was a wash of brown, picked out in makeshift, bright houses, painted reds and yellows. People milled around, hacking at the earth with picks, mending rooftops. He could see much denser housing just over the horizon, colours blurring like a heat-haze. 

The wagon rumbled into life, wheels squealing into a turn. The old woman waved her friend goodbye as the scenery began to move slowly. 

Damian felt himself fading. 

The steady rumble of the wagon's wheels, the snatches of talk, the warmth of the sheets underneath him lulled him to sleep. 

His bones ached. 

The old woman said something. 

Damian heaved himself up, looking at her questioningly. 

“She would have talked for hours, if you'd let her,” The woman said, slowly and carefully. 

Damian nodded numbly. “Thank you.” He said, only slightly slurring. “—For all… of the things.”

The old woman smiled, warmly. “My name is Ananthalekshmi.” 

Damian moved his mouth, trying to form the word before he said it. “Anananthe—Anan...”

“Ananthalekshmi.” The woman repeated. “A-nan-tha-lek-sh-mi.”

“A-nan-tha-l-...lek-sh-mi,” He said, slowly. “Anantha… Ananthalekshmi.”

The old woman beamed. 

Damian felt a sharp stab of affection. It was like being blessed. 

 

*

 

“Who's Mani?” Damian asked quietly, over the camp fire. 

He'd wanted to ask for days, but he'd been hesitant. He didn't want to upset her, or risk being turfed out of the wagon for overstepping boundaries. He didn't know which was worse. 

Ananthalekshmi smoothed down her Sari over her knees, thoughtful. She had a way of looking thoughtfully elegant in a way Damian had never seen anyone else do. She twisted a hand into her heavy braid. “He was my son.”

Damian waited, patiently. 

The fire crackled and popped. The nights were bone-achingly cold, desert winds blowing straight through him, snaking painfully into his abused joints. The front of him became sweaty and too hot, while his back was freezing. 

“Mani was always a rogue child.” The old woman continued, unhurried. She kept her Hindi slow and proper, something Damian was eternally grateful for. The merchants and traders that sometimes travelled with them spoke like lightning, dialect and slang confusing Damian no end. He had picked up much more fluency over the months he'd travelled with her, but it still tired him out, translating it all into Arabic in his head. 

“He always ran too fast and too far. Did my heart no end of trouble.” Ananthalekshmi sighed, knotting her hands together. “Just like his father. Their hearts seemed to belong to the wind. He would barely sit still to have his breakfast before he was gone, running and screaming with the other children.”

Damian looked into her eyes. She wasn't crying, which was good, but her eyes were clouded with memory. 

“One of those days, he ran too far. Poor thing stepped on a landmine. Blew himself apart, took his friend's legs with him.” Her eyebrows knitted together, and she rubbed a calloused hand over her forehead. “That was so many years ago. I moved back to India. Stopped waiting for his father to come home from the front.”

Damian nodded. 

“It was nine years ago.” She smiled. “You're nine, aren't you, my little jewel?”

With a jolt, Damian realised he was. His birthday had passed uncelebrated, again. He nodded quickly, looking down. 

Ananthalekshmi laughed, softly. It was a beautiful laugh. “I don't mean anything by it. You can still leave when we reach a bigger city. It's just an old woman's musings.” 

Damian looked at her. His bright eyes glowed in the flames, spinning blue. “I won't leave.”

Ananthalekshmi smiled, and suddenly she seemed a lot older. More fragile. “You're a good boy.”

 

*

 

“'Nan?” Damian ducked his head, lifting the old rug from the door-frame. The apartment was dark, the air thick with the dust that had shaken from the cement ceiling. He had given up trying to clean it, instead carpeting the floors with cheap rugs and off-cut fabrics. 

Damian moved stiffly. His joints got so stiff some mornings it took half an hour's stretching to stand without pain. “Ananthalekshmi?”

He twisted his head to the right a lot more, to make up for his deaf side. He'd learnt to disguise it, a little. 

A weak laugh huffed from the largest pile of sheets. 

“Always sounds… so funny when you say it, Dah'men.” Ananthalekshmi smiled. 

Damian smiled back. She remembered him today. That was a good sign. Somedays he'd barely managed to escape the house, her angry shouts about him being her good-for-nothing brother stinging his back. Other days she'd just sit there and hold him, weeping.

Damian crouched down at her bedside, rooting through his pockets for the food. 

“Show me your hands, Dah'men,” Ananthalekshmi shuffled around, pulling her hands out of the sheets. 

Reluctantly, Damian showed her his hands. 

Ananthalekshmi cupped his fists, running a thumb over his broken, bleeding knuckles. It stung, but he didn't pull away. 

He was always hesitant to use his fists, the little bones in his hands were fragile and someone's skull was a vault of bone, favouring his elbows. But he'd learnt quickly that people betted bigger on a boxer whose knuckles bled. 

Ananthalekshmi sighed deeply, eyes glazing over. “My little boy. My little warrior.”

Damian turned his hands over, pressing the cheap food bars into her hands. She took them, reluctantly. 

She raised a hand, cupping the scarred side of his face. He couldn't really feel her fingers, but he leaned into the touch anyway. Her warmth spread through his face. 

“You are lucky you are ugly.” She said, quietly. 

Damian nodded. 

Two years ago, he would have snarled. Scrapped. Demanded she shut her mouth and take back her lying words.

But he was lucky. He had avoided the city's red light district, he had gained a reputation as a vicious boxer. His ruined face, raw and puckered and ugly, had brought him money, a safer income than his whole, beautiful one would have. 

Ananthalekshmi peeled the wrapper from the bar, eating it slowly. She did everything slowly now. 

Damian straightened up, knees popping. He rubbed his legs, huffing out a sigh. He looked down at the old woman, something warm in his eyes. “Sleep well, Anan.”

 

*

 

Ananthalekshmi died in the August Damian turned eleven. 

It was a rain-slicked day, heavy and loud. The rain came down like bullets, shattering against the earth. Damian was already soaked, the sticky earth sucking at his bare feet. The horizon blurred like welling tears. 

It was not a surprise. She had been sick for days, weeks. Aside from that, though, Damian didn't know how he felt. 

Sad, definitely. He missed her with a physical ache, but he'd been missing her for weeks, even before she died. He had missed her laugh, once loud and booming, reduced to a light, breathy chuckle. Missed her sharp wit. Missed her advice.

But mostly, he felt… rootless. 

There was nothing keeping him here, in India. He didn't mind it here, but he felt out of place. He stayed, worked, strived to keep Ananthalekshmi and himself fed and well. She had no relatives, no family left, and he owed her so much already. 

But now… 

“It's a shame,” a voice said. 

Damian turned, surprised. 

The old woman from nearly three years ago sat down heavily on the graveyard bench. She was missing most of her teeth now, and seemed to droop in on herself, like an old shanty house. “She was a good friend.”

Damian nodded. He didn't really feel like talking. 

“Every death, takes something away.” The old woman continued, leaning back in the bench. “One minute you're weak, the next you're in the ground. Like the sea against a cliff.”

Damian watched the storm clouds shift uneasily on the horizon. The rain had let off for a little, but it would likely be back soon. 

“That's the thing about being old.” The old woman stretched her legs. “Everyone dies around you.”

Damian looked at her. “You don't have to be old for your friends to die.”

The old woman grinned. “They're all gone, eh?”

Damian nodded, quickly. 

“Sure?”

Damian tilted his head. “...not exactly.” He said, finally. 

“There, you see?” The old woman shook her head. “Me, I have nothing. You, you like to pretend you do.”

Damian shot her a flat look. “I don't even know that part of my family.”

The old woman ran a tongue over her black gums. “It doesn't look like anything's stopping you.”

Damian glanced at the clouds. India seemed to exist under a different sky than Arabia had. America seemed so far away. His father… 

Damian dug his hands into his sodden pockets. “You know what? I think you're right.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jason didn't know how he kept getting into these situations, he really didn't.

 

His back hit the upended table with a thud as bullet holes tore into the chalkboard above his head. His heart was pounding in his chest, adrenaline making his blood sing. His hands fumbled for ammo inside his jacket, groping wildly.

 

His fingers found fabric and empty air.

 

Broken glass crunched under the gangster's feet, the fucker wasn't hanging around.

 

Jason pulled himself into a crouch, testing his arm. He might be able to overpower the thug if he moved fast enough, and the gangster wasn't too trigger-happy, but _fuck_ this wasn't really where he wanted to be right now.

 

A shot rang out and Jason hit the deck.

 

A thump shoved the table forward and Jason scrambled back, raising his fists and dropping into a ready stance.

 

The store was silent. Glass crinkled under Jason's boots as he shifted uneasily.

 

The gangster was down, half of his head blown out. Blood curdled in the glass shards, spreading like a stain.

 

A boy he didn't recognise lowered his gun.

 

“Oh, man.” Jason murmured. “You're not his buddy, are you?”

 

The boy raised an eyebrow. “I just shot him point blank in the head.”

 

Jason stepped over the ruined table. The boy's accent was weird, half-Gotham half-something muddled. “Why'd you do that?”

 

The boy flipped the safety on and tucked his gun back under his shirt. “ _Someone_ was shooting holes through my apartment floor.”

 

Jason winced. It had been a long fight, chasing most of the scum through their various hideouts to eradicate them completely. He had to be sure. Batman would have let most of them slip through the cracks, even if it was by accident.

  

“I'm grateful,” The boy's bright eyes grew dark, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I've seen one of the boys they threw in the river.”

 

Jason smiled grimly. All those poor kids.

 

“Do you want a beer?” The boy asked, opening the glass-less door frame.

 

Jason raised his eyebrows.

 

“I've got three different kinds of pistol ammo and a first aid kit for that arm.” The boy tempted.

 

Jason sighed. Sure, why not. If the kid wanted him dead, he'd be dead. If Talia wanted him back, she'd have sent more than a kid. And he was no use as bait for anyone, not anymore.

 

“Lead the way,” Jason grinned.

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

“Here,” The boy tossed him a beer, tearing off a can of coke for himself. It was dark, the light pooling from the open fridge.

  

Jason caught it easily, squinting at the label. It's wasn't cheap shit, which was really surprising. How long had it been since he'd drunk anything but bottom shelf liquor? He snapped off the top with his teeth.

 

The boy settled across from him, busying himself cleaning his gun. It gave Jason a chance to get a good look at him.

 

The boy looked every inch the classic street kid. An oversized, greying pink floyd shirt hung low on his thin shoulders, dark shorts engulfed his skinny legs, reaching past his knees, pockets bulging with probably all his worldly possessions. Even the cheap charm around his neck, paint peeling away from metal beads, fit with the image. Worn out trainers, bottoms flapping.

 

His burns were unusual, extensive, not something most kids survived. But they obviously hadn't been treated much, raised like raw tree roots across his dark skin.

 

Jason took a swig of beer. It was nice. “Thanks.” He said, probably too late.

 

The kid ran a cleaning rag around the plastic top of his gun. “It's not mine.”

  

Jason nodded. He'd done his fair share of squatting. “How long've you been in Gotham?”

 

The kid's gaze flickered to meet his. “Three months. How did you know?”

 

“Your accent.”

  

“Specifically.” The kid pressed.

 

“I don't know,” Jason took another long drink of his beer. “Your 'o's are too quick, I guess. And you hesitate a little bit before speaking.”

 

The kid nodded. He glanced up at the ceiling, as if trying to store the information away for later. When he looked back, his gaze was sharper. “You're red-hood, aren't you?”

 

Jason hesitated and nodded. He'd lost the mask when some fucker had shot it, but that wasn't the only thing people looked at when they saw him. “Why'd you come to Gotham?”

 

The boy looked for a moment like he wasn't going to answer. His hooded eyes burned bright blue. “I came to meet my father. But I'm...” He struggled for a word. “...reluctant. If he knows my mother, it won't be nice for anyone.”

 

Jason nodded, closing his eyes. He didn't press. He was no Dick Grayson, he had no idea how to deal with bleeding hearts. And to be honest, he had enough problems of his own.

 

A clock ticked away somewhere.

 

The clicks and rasps of the boy cleaning his gun was weirdly relaxing. The snap of metal and plastic was almost sending Jason to sleep. It must have been relaxing for the kid too, because he swiped Jason's gun and started to clean that as well, needing something to do with hands.

  

Jason's eyes drifted to the window, to the beautiful blue twilight Gotham still managed to produce after all the horrors it housed. The moonlight cast a soft, gauzy glow through the thick smog that covered Gotham like a shroud.

 

The winking gold and red lights of the streets reminded him suddenly of his childhood. He remembered pressing his nose to the cold glass watching for any flicker of Batman, or better, Robin. He remembered curling up on the windowsill, alone in the blue nights, falling asleep waiting. The memory rose in him like a physical pressure.

 

The boy clicked the gun together, finishing the job with a swipe of the plastic brush. He lifted the cleaned gun into the dim light, inspecting his handiwork. The sounds of movement were comforting.

 

“Do you think,” The kid asked, speaking slowly. His accent was perfect now. “That Red Hood could do with a partner?”

 

Jason stared. He narrowed his eyes. “I'm not looking for a Robin, kid.”

 

The kid put the gun down, metal clanking on the glass coffee table. His glare matched Jason's. “I'm not asking to be a Robin.”

 

Jason searched the kid's features. The heavy burn that stretched over one side of his face, mottling his hand. The muscle that bulked the deceptively small shoulders. The sharp coldness in his blue eyes. He remembered the lack of concern on the boy's face after he watched a man die. The way he held a gun.

 

There was no way this kid would ever be a robin, even if he wanted to.

 

“Fine.” Jason grinned, sourly. Tonight was a night for bad decisions.

  

The kid stretched his good hand over the table.

 

“Damian,” He said, catching himself before his surname. A secret, then.

 

“Jason,” Jason caught it firmly. “Nice to meet you.”

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

Damian stared at himself in the mirror.

 

He pulled at the thickly-layered black skirt. It was like he had stolen the tail feathers of some enormous black crow. It lifted oddly, and seemed to float away from him if he moved too fast. He shuffled about on his too-high heels.

  

“Do you like it?” Jason grinned, barely bothering to keep the glee from his voice.

 

Damian brushed some of the wig's plasticky hair away from his bad eye. He shot Jason a flat look. “Are you trying to bamboozle me?”

 

Jason stopped moving. “What?”

  

“- _tt_ -,” Damian turned to face him, shuffling like a newborn lamb. “Are you _trying_ to _bamboozle_ me?”

 

“No, no,” A 100-watt grin spread over Jason's face, “Say that again.”

 

Damian snarled, embarrassed. “What's so funny about it?”

 

“No, you just— _bamboozle_ ,” Jason grinned. He clapped a hand over Damian's shoulder. “You look beautiful, darling, by the way.”

 

Damian shrugged his hand off, moving awkwardly. He glared daggers. “Let's just get this over with.”

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

Something had gone wrong.

 

Something had gone wrong, and it wasn't Jason's fault, which was refreshing.

  

He could already see Damian, shedding heels and running in a skirt like a champ, and he ducked behind the back of the nightclub, yanking his good old pistol from the back of his jeans. Damian should be able to lead the worst of them away, the way he'd been swinging his hips.

 

Nights like these, adrenaline singing in his blood, heart pounding like the skin of a drum, it was hard to believe he had ever been anything other than this. He was part of the night.

 

Jason slunk through the back, and shot the lock off the garage. He didn't have time to be subtle.

 

He threw open the doors.

 

The girls huddled away from the door, faces shrouded with fear. He pushed the doors wider. They didn't move.

 

“Look, I've called the cops, okay? You're gonna be alright,” Jason glanced at them, beckoning them forward.

  

They spilled out onto the pavement, sticking close together. Their eyes shined like jewels in the street-lights. Jason wished he had a blanket or something, some of them were damn near naked.

 

Jason shuffled backwards and they relaxed a little, still shooting him—and his gun—fearful glances. Whatever.

 

He usually didn't do gigs this far south, it was way out of Gotham's territory, but he couldn't wait for crimes to fall in his lap. Regardless, it wasn't like he he owed Gothamites anything.

 

Jason leapt back into the streets, sprinting down the dark road.

 

He leapt over railings and—

  

Jason skidded, scrambling backwards.

 

A monster of a man held Damian by the back of the head, his little body hanging limp and bloody.

 

Iron man—fucking _Iron man_ —bent on one knee half a block away. He straightened up, lifting a palm. It beamed bright, pale blue into the night.

 

“Game's over, Abominable.”

 

The monster man laughed, a raw, throaty sound like something being torn open. He shook Damian's body, blood flecking on the rubble. “Stand down, Iron Man, else this little girly dies.”

  

Jason fixed Damian with a searching look.

 

Damian's clear blue eye caught his. He signed a three, and then a two, fingers curling slowly, hand bumping against Damian's ruined skirt as the monster shook him. Man, this kid was good.

 

Meta, then, and the kid had a plan. The kid flicked his wrist to the side, gesturing to the monster.

 

The monster watched Iron Man, attention caught completely. He was a beast, skin raw and bloody, etched deep with tattoos and scars. His face was gnarled, features lumpy and horrible. Stretched across his chest were thick magazines and Grenade—...oh. Jason grinned. The kid had watched a lot of action movies, obviously.

 

“On your knees, Iron Man.” The monster boomed.

 

Iron Man faltered.

 

The monster shook Damian, who gritted his teeth, wincing. “KNEES!”

 

Iron Man hesitated again.

  

The monster grimaced, tightening the grip on Damian's head. He screamed, clapping his hands against the monster's sausage fingers, trying to pry them off with his shaking hands. It brought his hands closer to the grenades, sure, but there was something raw in that cry that made Jason's heart jump.

 

Jason needed to get in position. He slunk through the shadows, not daring to move too fast.

 

Iron Man knelt.

 

“Remove your head protection.” The monster ground out.

 

Iron Man's mask snapped back into the helmet.

 

“ALL OF IT!” The monster's grip tightened on Damian's head. Damian whimpered.

 

Iron Man tugged off his helmet, bowing his head.

 

The monster laughed, reaching for a grenade.

 

Damian was faster.

  

In a single moment he tore off the ring and shoved the grenade down the laughing man's throat.

 

He managed to slip out of the thing's grip, but it snatched the back of his shirt, choking.

 

The grenade went off with Damian too close.

 

Jason was in the wrong position but shot anyway, filling the thing with holes, too many bullets lost in the brick.

 

The air cleared.

 

Jason's ears rang from the gunshots, and he scanned the ground for his partner.

 

Damian pushed himself up, touching the side of his face gingerly. The explosion was on his bad side, so there'd been no eardrum to shatter, thankfully. He didn't know what he'd do if he went _completely_ deaf.

 

The monster couldn't make a sound but thrashed, blood bubbling from its ruined chest, split open like a smashed watermelon. Its arms flailed uselessly, searching blindly for Damian, for Iron Man, for anyone.

  

Jason thought someone should put it out of its misery, but he'd already used all his bullets. And a dark part of him wanted the thing to suffer, anyway.

 

Iron Man lifted from the ground, lifting his helmet up to put on again, but thinking better of it. He tucked it under his arm and darted around the monster's remains.

 

“...hey?” Iron Man asked.

 

Damian threw off his wig, prodding gingerly at the huge lumps forming from the thing's fingers. Shit, that had been close. He swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth and looked Iron Man in the eye.

 

Iron Man stared. _Tony Stark_ stared. “Damian?” He breathed.

  

Damian lifted himself unsteadily to his feet. His vision swam. “I—...”

 

“I'll take him home,” Jason murmured, appearing at his side. He wrapped an arm around Damian's waist. “Stay with me, kid.”

 

“I'll do you one better than that,” Tony gestured behind him. “Stark Tower's just over there. It's got state of the art medical facilities. For free.” Tony's gaze dropped to the mess of the monster. “I should probably do something about that.”

 

“Leave him.” Jason stepped over the sprawling legs. “I don't think he has arms left to handcuff.”

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

“How long ago were those burns?” The doctor circled him, eyes sharp.

 

Damian's head was feeling better, and he could keep his thoughts together, at least. “Three years.”

  

The doctor ran a light hand over Damian's shoulder. He couldn't feel it, but it still make his skin crawl.

 

“It looks mostly third-degree. There's lumps of scar tissue at the top of the shoulder, which we could separate and let heal again to improve mobility. It's already matured, which is a shame.” The doctor seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice, narrating their own thoughts. “Skin grafts are an option, as well as CEA, I mean, artificial membranes. It's expensive, but if you're friends with Mr. Stark...”

 

Damian stared at the wall, trying to ignore the doctor's closeness. The talk of improving cosmetic value made him nauseous. He didn't mind his burns. Heck, he even _liked_ them. He wasn't about to let himself be operated on so someone's kid would stop staring at him.

 

“Is there any pain?”

 

Some nights Damian would wake up, whimpering, his whole side on fire. He'd sit there, paralysed in the dark, shaking until morning. He nodded uneasily.

 

“I think I have some—oh, Mr Stark!” The doctor brightened.

  

Damian lifted his gaze from the floor.

 

Tony ducked through the doorway, fresh faced and beaming.

 

“I'll go and fetch the cream,” The doctor hurried out of the room, leaving them alone.

 

Tony grinned at him, sitting down in the chair opposite.

  

“Stark.” Damian ground out.

 

Tony nodded. “Damian.”

 

“What the _fuck_ was that, out there?” Damian pushed off the bed, straightening up. “Do you actually have any brain cells? Or did you sell them already?!”

 

Tony raised his eyebrows, “What're you—?”

 

“You should have gone for him when he was distracted parading me around. You didn't. You fucking took off your helmet!” Damian snarled. “If you want to die, there's easier ways!”

 

Tony stood up. “I couldn't throw you to the _wolves_!”

 

“You can and you should have! If you let me die you could've gone to save hundreds, thousands of others! Don't throw it all away on one fucking kid,” Damian snapped, words coming venomous, “You didn't know it was me! You didn't know you owed me!”

 

Tony glared. “But I couldn't sacrifice you. It would be wrong.”

  

Damian glared back. “That doesn't make any sense.”

 

Words gushed past Tony's mouth, unsaid.

 

Tony could still see the eight-year-old in the rough kid's face. The haughtiness, the self-confidence. The same startlingly bright eyes in a dark, sharp face. But he'd changed, as well. His tufted hair was shorn close to curve of his skull. His face had roughed. The burns had pulled his face oddly, warping his expression. Damian was stretched taunt, close to snapping.

 

Tony cupped the boy's small shoulders in his hands, and Damian nearly flinched.

 

“Human life...” Tony struggled for words. He really wasn't the best mentor figure. “...it's not simple addition and subtraction.”

 

Damian's lip twisted. “That doesn't make much sense.”

  

Tony laughed, quietly. “Heroes don't make much sense. Plus, self-sacrificing is about as heroic as you can get.”

 

Damian quietened, confusion twisting his features. “But I'm not worth...”

 

Tony engulfed him.

  

Damian froze, pulled tight against Tony's chest. After a few moments he managed to relax his muscles, but the unease didn't leave his bones.

 

“You're worth it, kid,” Tony mumbled. He winced. Way to sound like a shampoo advert.

 

Damian's eyes slid shut. Ananthalekshmi used to hug him, every once in a while. She was soft and warm in the way only old ladies could be. Tony was hard and stunk of sweat, but he was warm, heart thrumming against Damian's chest.

 

Damian dropped his head, slowly, onto Tony's shoulder, like a surrender.

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

“So, you're Damian's…?” Tony half-asked, staring down at the other man.

  

He looked a lot like Damian, same pale eyes, same wary glances. He wore some kind of leather jacket, with more hidden pockets than SHIELD had secrets. His hair was dark and longer than Damian's, hanging in clusters, the sort of soft unruly hair that made people want to chase after him with a comb.

 

“Yeah.” He said, scratching the back of his neck. “I'm Jason. And you're, what, Damian's…?”

 

“Yeah.” Tony settled down on the couch. He guessed he didn't really know, either. 

 

“Does that thing have cable?” Jason jutted a thumb towards the flat screen.

 

Tony raised his eyebrows. “ _Does that_ —you know who I am? I'm Tony Stark. If I wanted to, I could call up the station and make them play Spongebob during the news.”

 

Something flickered through Jason's face and he grinned. “Do it.”

 

Tony stared. “Seriously?”

 

Jason grinned, staring into Tony's eyes. “I don't believe you. Do it.”

 

Tony didn't break eye-contact. “JARVIS? Get the station on the phone.”

 

There was a silence.

  

“JARVIS?” Tony ordered.

 

There was a crackle of beeps, the AI version of a sigh. “ _On it, sir._ ”

 

Jason grinned. A lot more money spent than was strictly necessary and a few angry phone-calls later, Jason began to think maybe the old guy wasn't so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slams keys* 
> 
> the word processor I'm using means that you can't paste it directly into ao3 so that means I have to do a complicated thing with previewing it on ff.net and copying it from there. (which is why this chapter's formatting is weird. I may change it at some point but not when I'm this tired.)
> 
> Tony is a really hard character to write. I had to think really hard about the dialogue in this one and take a few breaks to mull it over.
> 
> ("dialogue" is the sort of word that looks wrong even when it's the right spelling.)


	4. Chapter 4

The microwave slammed.

Damian was annoyed. It had been a very long time since he'd used a microwave, and the amount of features was intensely irritating. The beeps it made went right through him.

The microwave in his and Jason's room hadn't worked, and with the other guest rooms needing a key-card, he'd slipped past the security cameras and made it up a floor. He had no idea if he'd be turned away if the cameras caught him, since the flaky American tycoon had told him jack shit about the tower, but it was better to be safe than sorry. It had been good practice, especially with the added challenge of carrying a cold Biryani.

Damian gave up with the features and jabbed in two minuets.

When the microwave asked him what intensity he wanted he had to take a moment to breathe. He punched in medium and decided he'd eat the Biryani even if it came out frozen solid. He fucking hated microwaves.

Someone cleared their throat.

Damian's head snapped up and he spun around.

A broad-shouldered man half-leant on the granite workspace, looking at him. His expression wasn't hostile, which was good, instead a halfway mixture between surprised and curious. His face might be kind, but he was strong and thickly muscled. Damian had seen kind-faced men do all sorts of horrible things. He shrunk back a little, glancing at the door.

The man's gaze flickered between Damian and the microwave.

“I, uh,” Damian gathered himself. “I apologise for using your microwave. It'll be done in a moment.”

The man straightened up. “That's okay. I'm just a little surprised to see you, is all.”

Damian nodded, looking away.

“I'm Steve Rogers, by the way.” The man smiled.

Damian glanced back. The man said it with a sort of finality, as if it was supposed to mean something. His face and his name rang no bells in Damian's mind, but he hadn't actually seen much popular media lately. English still made his head hurt.

He had thought that someone with the responsibility of Iron Man might not house stray actors or singers or television hosts or whoever this Steve Rogers person was, especially not so close to his base, but Tony Stark was Tony Stark. He'd probably invented irresponsibility.

The microwave finished with a hellish squeal, and Damian threw it open, tugging out the lukewarm plate of curry.

“So, you're Tony's…?” Steve Rogers raised his head, struggling for a suggestion. “...relative?”

Damian opened the stair doors with a sharp kick. He pinned the door against the wall with his knee. “Tony owes me a great debt.”

Damian let the door swing shut, silencing the rest of the man's questions.

 

*

 

“Oh, hey Damian.” Jason lifted his head at the sound of the door. “Any luck with Operation Microwave?”

Damian shrugged, dropping his plate onto the coffee table with a clatter. “It cooled down before I reached this room again.” Damian stabbed a cold carrot with his fork, more viciously than he intended. “I met someone on the next level up.”

“Oh?” Jason leant over the laptop screen. “Who was it? Queen of England?”

“Steve Rogers.” Damian shot him a look over the cold Biryani. “That mean anything to you?”

Jason laughed. “You're shitting me!”

Damian's glare could've turned him to stone.

“Oh, you're not.” Jason grinned, going back to his laptop. He shook his head. This kid was too funny. “Ever heard of the Avengers?”

“A little. They are a group of metas, based around Manhattan. Sometimes they travel to other parts of the world.” Damian squirmed just a little. His lack of knowledge frazzled his nerves. In the league, it would have meant death. But the league was a long time ago.

“Not all of them're metas, but close enough.” Jason glanced away from his screen. “It's got Iron Man, Hulk, Thor, this really pretty chic, some archer guy.” Jason waved his hand. “And then there's Captain America, he's Steve Rogers.”

“So that means this's their base too.” Damian narrowed his eyes. “Who's Captain America?”

Jason carded a hand through his hair. “I'm no historian, so I don't know any dates, but basically sometime during the war they pumped this skinny Brooklyn kid full of god-knows-what and turned him into the greatest American soldier ever. And then he won the war. Got frozen.” Jason rubbed his forehead. “I don't know how he got out of that one.”

Damian nodded, shovelling more Biryani. He had been right to trust his instincts with Steve Rogers. Who knew what a super soldier might do if he'd stuck around.

The truth was, Damian needed more general knowledge. It was truly indispensable, something that would keep him alive in a foreign country. He might gain it by simply living in America for a few years, but surviving those years would be the challenge. The trouble was, he didn't know there was a gap in his knowledge until it embarrassed him.

“We're leaving Stark Tower tomorrow, if nothing's keeping us here.” Jason announced, closing the laptop with a soft click.

Damian straightened up. “Why?”

“Don't get me wrong, it's a great pit-stop, but I guess it just reminds me too much of—” Jason cut himself off, startled. It was surprising how at-ease the kid made him, he had almost let the cat out of the bag there.

The kid watched him closely.

Jason looked at him, still unsettled. He guessed he saw something in the kid that reminded him of himself, younger, or maybe it was just that it was the first time in a long time he'd talked to someone who wasn't tied up in the horrible mess that was his Problem. He didn't know. But it was almost like he was someone else when he was talking to Damian.

Damian put down his fork. “What does it remind you of?”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “I'll tell you if you tell me your last name.”

Damian flinched back.

Guilt tingled in Jason's chest. Real, actual guilt. He shook his head. Jason pulled the laptop back onto his lap, flipping the screen open. “It doesn't really matter. I've found a case that needs our attention anyway.”

Damian looked at him, still a little wary. He must have really hit a nerve.

“Here,” Jason passed over his laptop.

Damian half-glanced at the screen and his blood ran cold. A face he hadn't seen in three years filled the screen.

Talia Al Ghul.

 

*

 

“Oh, Tony,” Steve raised an eyebrow. “Are those… pancakes?”

“Yeah,” Tony poked at the crispy remains. “Long story. I tried to set up all the cookers and appliances to a mainframe, to stop fires and whatever, but it looks like a lot of them got replaced without me being told. I kinda short-circuit a lot of it.” Tony gave up trying to scrape it into the bin and just binned the whole pan. “Sorry if I disturbed you.”

Steve shook his head. “It's fine. Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?” Tony asked.

“Well—”

“What is that smell?” Natasha appeared suddenly, half a bag of bread under her arm. She wrinkled her nose. “Dead fish eggs?”

Tony leant back, as if shocked. “Good afternoon to you too. And it's pancakes.”

“You have staff for that,” Natasha glanced in the bin. “Probably for good reason.”

“Cooking's supposed to be relaxing.” Tony sighed. “It wasn't really.”

Natasha shrugged. “I've seen worse coping mechanisms.”

Tony grinned, a little awkwardly.

“Tony. A boy came up here earlier to reheat his curry,” Steve said firmly, drawing attention again, “Young, possibly mixed race, an extensive burn over his right side?”

“Ah,” Tony visibly brightened. “Damian. He's pretty prickly, but he's got some charm.”

“Yes, well,” Steve folded his arms. “I don't think you should just bring random kids into the Avenger HQ. Stark Tower's not just your personal play pen anymore.”

“Hey,” Tony frowned. “Damian's not just some random kid. He saved my life. Twice, actually. I do have a brain, you know.”

Steve prickled, straightening up. “He might have saved your life, but—”

“This Damian,” Natasha cut through Steve's words easily, “He wouldn't be the one that died saving you from the explosion in Afghanistan? Damian Al Ghul?”

“Um.” Tony said.

Natasha's fury thinned the air like a storm passing overhead. “You let an _Al Ghul_ just _walk_ into Stark Tower? The grandson of _Ra's Al Ghul_?”

Tony shifted away.

“Who's Ra's Al Ghul?” Steve asked.

Tony brushed him off. “After your time.”

“Not really,” Natasha said darkly, stepping away from the work-area. “Excuse me. I've got some calls to make.”

 

*

 

Jason watched the kid look through the photos. Something like fear had flashed in the kid's eyes, but the Al Ghuls got around. It wasn't groundbreaking that the kid had had a run in with them.

“So what are they going to go?” Damian asked, slowly to hide his shaking voice.

Jason stretched out on the couch. “The usual. It looks like they're carting in large amounts of cocaine in order to spread it around Gotham. We can beat up as many small time hoods as we want, but unless we plug the leakage we're going to be mopping up spills forever.”

Damian nodded absently. He couldn't take his eyes away from the screen.

“Anyway, Talia's the boss lady in the operation. She only answers to her grandfather.” Jason scratched his chin. “She's pretty good fighter, although doesn't usually engage in combat. Fights with a sword. She's usually gone before I make it through all of the clones.”

Damian's head snapped up. “Clones?”

Jason nodded. “So I don't really know why, but apparently her kid died or something, and she went haywire after that. Tried to clone him, mix his DNA with everything else under the sun, but all it really got her was this large bunch of dumb goons. They don't fight very well but there's a lot of them.”

Damian stared at him, colour drained from his face.

Jason turned his gaze away.

He wasn't even curious about Damian's past. He had been around enough street kids and seen enough shit to understand he really didn't want to know. It wasn't his place to know, and so long as it didn't affect them, he didn't need to know. It was something horrible. It always was.

Damian curled around the laptop, trying to commit every inch of his mother's face to memory.

She'd gone mad after his death? The clones were her simply trying to deal with her loss?

Damian flicked through the photographs.

He'd left hastily, he knew. He'd had one chance. But, after all, he had just assumed the clones would replace him should he fail. He'd had no proof. He'd just left. Just torn the heart out of Talia's universe.

Damian's hand began to shake, lightly, and he stuffed it into his pocket.

Talia was a criminal. She killed people, sold drugs, stole. She was on the wrong side of the law.

But Damian killed people. He stole. If caught, he'd be sent to Juvie at least. The line between them was very thin indeed.

Damian closed the laptop with a soft click. He screwed his eyes shut, tears prickling hot behind them.

Had he been wrong? He—

“ _Jason and Damian_?” The AI crackled through the ceiling, “ _Could you please proceed upstairs, into the main room. I believe a meeting has been called._ ”

“Great.” Jason deadpanned, slipping off the sofa. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

Damian pushed the laptop off his knees and stood, shakily.

Jason peered down at him, feeling an odd sense of concern. “We can, eh… leave, if you want. It'll take them a while to find us again.”

Damian pushed past him. He was not a child.

 

*

 

“Ah, Damian, I presume?”

Damian stepped into the meeting room warily. His heart still felt a little jumpy, but he shoved the feeling down and schooled his face. There were four more men in the room, none of which he could pin down to 'The Hulk' or 'Thor' or 'Some Archer Guy'. Irritation curled in his stomach. He hated not knowing.

“SHIELD are indebted to you,” The man continued. He was smaller than the rest of the troop, balding. He wore a smooth grey suit. He looked like a regular desk job type, but it wasn't impossible he could hulk out. “Your sacrifice was incredibly selfless and saved a lot of lives.”

Damian sat down silently on the seat closest to the door. He didn't really want to sit, but he needed to keep up an image.

The man glanced up at Jason. “And you're…?”

“Me?” Jason half-shrugged. “I'm none of your business. And neither's he.”

The man watched Jason. “Everything's SHIELD's business. Especially this. Even if Damian shrugged off the Al Ghul name, it's still possible he's passing on information.”

Jason stared. “The _Al Ghul_ name?” Jason peered down at Damian. “You're the long dead son?”

Damian turned his gaze away, hunching in on himself. He could feel the need to leave rise in him like a physical pressure, crushing his chest. It was a little like panic, a lot like desperation. Like walking on the edge of a cliff. It was all he could do to sit still.

“Regardless,” The man in the suit pressed, “if you both would just sit in for some questioning, I—”

Damian stood up, suddenly.

“Sit down.”

Damian looked down at him. “Call off your guards.”

“I can't do that,” The man said.

In an instant, Damian's gun pointed at his head. The lovingly clean sides glinted darkly. His eyes were just as cold.

“Call off your guards,” Damian repeated.

The man stared him down.

Damian shot the ceiling twice and brought his gun back down.

The man called off his guards.

Damian was gone in an instant.

Tony shifted awkwardly. “Oh, to be young and homicidal.”

“At least they can go home now,” Steve said quietly. “He looked really shaken up.”

“He won't make it out the door,” Coulson ran a hand over his suit, smoothing it. “I may have called off the guards but there's still the tranq guns.”

“I _said_ ,” Steve repeated, forcefully. “At least they can go home now.”

Coulson watched him. And sighed. He flipped out his phone. “Right you are.”

 

*

 

“Damian Al Ghul, eh?” Jason swung a leg over his motorcycle, pulling on his helmet. Damian slotted in behind him, arms wrapping like cablewire around Jason's rips.

“ _Don't_ ,” Damian snarled, inches from Jason's ear.

Jason kicked off the motorcycle with a jolt, and for once, he didn't.

 

*

 

As soon as they reached the safe house, Damian slipped off the bike, face unreadable.

Jason followed him, awkwardly.

Dick would have been great at this. He always knew exactly what to say, always dropped the magic words that would undo the worst of everything. He was always like that with Bruce—when they weren't screaming at each other, Dick would untangle the heavy knot Bruce tied into his feelings, easing him up little by little. Jason guessed that was just another way he didn't measure up.

Damian moved like a ghost, unlocking the apartment with a quick flip of the keys, drifting into the dark living room.

He half curled up on the sofa, taking his gun apart to clean.

Jason hung around the doorway, wracking his brains. Damn, what would Dick say? Would he laugh? Hug the kid? Share experiences? God, would any of that even work? Damian wasn't exactly your normal eleven-year-old.

Damian slipped out the magazine, locking the slide back, glancing down the chamber. His hands moved smoothly, unconsciously. “You know, you owe me.” Damian murmured. “What does Stark Tower remind you of?”

Jason collapsed on the sofa opposite him. “I'm not going to air my dirty laundry because Tony Stark got gobby with yours.”

Damian huffed something like a laugh. “You always say you're not going to do something right before you do it.”

Jason grumbled. “Fine, whatever. It reminded me of Wayne Manor. I'm Bruce Wayne's estranged son. One of them, anyway.”

Damian's face washed with surprise. He gathered himself. “There's gotta be more to it than that.”

Jason froze. “What do you mean?”

“If you were just strange,” Damian struggled for words. “He probably wouldn't mind.”

Jason stared. He didn't quite process. And then it clicked. “Eh-stranged. It means, um, we're in a fight. A big one, and we don't talk anymore.”

“Oh,” Damian shrunk back, face flushing. He buried himself in his cleaning.

Jason settled back into the sofa. It seemed alright. The kid seemed the same as always. Or maybe he was just really bad at reading people.

“I guess we do have something in common, then,” Damian tugged out a nylon brush.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah. I guess we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if its just me, but microwaves make me really irritable. At best I can usually ignore it, but microwaves must have really wronged me in a past life because I absolutely hate them now :¬/ 
> 
> a note on Damian's comprehension: Damian IS fluent in english. However, I have experianced talking in a foreign language and have friends who speak english as a second language, and people make mistakes. Hence the "Bamboozle" in the last chapter and "estranged" in this one. 
> 
> idk i just really like language use as a feature in a character.


	5. Chapter 5

Damian's head jerked up as Jason entered the room.

 

“Don't you think it's time we got you a costume?” Jason's hands were behind his back, and he was grinning.

 

Damian raised an eyebrow. He closed the laptop and pushed it off his knees.

 

“I mean,” Jason took a step forward. “The skirt and heels are all very nice...”

 

“Show me.” Damian demanded.

 

Jason whipped the costume out like a magician.

 

Damian stared. He took the costume, running a hand over the thick fabric. Damian tugged his shirt over his head, slipping out of his jeans (despite Jason's surprised protests) and slipped it on.

 

The costume sat heavy, like a second, thicker skin. It was deep black kevlar, like the darker Gotham nights, obscuring his form. The only colour was a bright, garish red gloves, and the small red utility belt. He spread his bright hands over the chest.

 

“It's my size.” Damian observed, absently.

 

“It was part of my detective training, would you believe. Never really shook it off,” Jason said. “Try the mask.”

 

Damian stared down at the mask in his hands. It was a gas-mask, the window tinted red. The rebreather was a good idea, with Joker venom and Poison ivy, but it was a bit clunky for his liking. “It's a bit dramatic, isn't it?”

 

“It's all to make you seem older,” Jason perched on the edge of the sagging old couch. “The gas mask's got a voice-scrambler in it.”

 

Damian slipped the gas-mask over his head, the magnetic poppers snapping into place. He tugged the hood over his head, squinting around the safe house. The red he would have to get used to. He tapped the side and the visor switched to night vision, heat vision, then infra-red. He grinned.

 

“So,” Jason grinned. “Do you like it?”

 

Damian tugged at the gloves, straightening up, feet shoulder width apart.

 

 

*

 

 

Jason tasted the air and felt free again.

 

He decided not to have his partner's debut with Talia. He tried hard to stay away from her anyway, and with whatever mess Damian was in, it was all the more reason to put it off. There was always other mobsters.

 

His  _p_ _artner_.

 

Jason crouched behind a crate of boxes to get his breath. He needed to wait for the scum to be relatively unguarded, at ease, so he could finish the job. He wouldn't get away this time.

 

It was weird, partnership. Was this how Bruce had felt, all those years ago? He swallowed back the bad taste in his mouth.

 

He didn't trust Damian. He didn't. If the brat betrayed him, Jason would have hell on his heels, but he wouldn't die. He was surprisingly hard to kill.

 

Jason watched the mobsters mill around, picking up chairs to start a game. Silently, he willed them to leave, but he could wait if he had to. At least he wasn't on the roof like the kid was, and the warehouse was relatively warm.

 

The dust itched inside his suit, but he ignored it, shifting silently.

 

Despite himself, he liked the kid, even if he was still wary of him. He'd keep the kid safe, and as happy as the brat ever got. Jason was a sappy mother-fucker, even after all this time.

 

The kid wasn't robin, but he was family.

 

 

*

 

 

Someone was quietly taking out the sentries across the roof.

 

Damian shifted his feet under him, straightening up. His hearing had always been awful, but he saw the flick of a green boot from behind the building's side. Whoever they were, they moved semi-silent, the odd creak of fabric or granite betraying them.

 

Damian crouched like a gargoyle, keeping his gaze steady on the surrounding sky scrapers. The hood cut off peripheral, so he'd have to trust his fading hearing on this one. He strained his ears, waiting.

 

There was a crinkle of fabric above him. They leapt—

 

Damian collided with them, crashing onto the roof like fighting dogs.

 

Their hand shot out, snatching the muzzle of the mask, poppers popping—

 

Damian's sword froze, millimetres from their neck.

 

Robin's grip tightened over the gas-mask. The mask was slipping, and the visor caught no light. It was like the sentry had no face, a black expanse under dark glass.

 

Tim swallowed, sword grazing his adam's apple. “You're hesitating.”

 

“I'm not hesitating.” The sentry's voice came out layered, only half scrambled by the mask. “If you remove the mask, I'll kill you.”

 

Tim's grip tightened over the metal.

 

Whatever the sentry said, he was hesitating. Any of the other sentries would have sliced off his head by now. Dead men tell no tales, and all that. But this one stood still, sword poised, mask slipping.

 

He was much smaller than the other sentries, lithe and compact, black outline marred by shockingly red gloves. Tim didn't recognise him, which meant he wasn't a Gotham native, or was very, very new. Outside help, then?

 

“What,” Tim said, “Your face too ugly for polite company?”

 

The sentry stiffened slightly. He'd hit a nerve there. Disfigured, then, or easily recognisable.

 

“You don't have to do this,” Tim said, carefully. The sword's razor edge was scraping the skin from his neck. “There's always another option.”

 

“Big words for the boy with a sword at his throat.” The sentry drawled.

 

Tim stilled. _Boy_ ? Coming from _this_ …

 

Tim stared. The mask and the red distracted him from the boy's form but there was no doubt the sentry was very young. Hadn't even been through puberty yet, still lanky and wiry, barely coming up to Tim's chest.

 

Tim cleared his throat, accidentally nicking it on the blade's edge. He leant back a little. “I'm serious, this—”

 

The sentry leapt sideways, batarangs embedding in his shadow. He danced backwards, sliding to a halt at the building's side.

 

“You alright, Robin?” Batman landed beside him, gaze flicking over his partner. Robin nodded, running a gloved finger over his gently bleeding neck.

 

The sentry's hood fell back. His face caught the moonlight.

 

“Another clone?” Batman narrowed his eyes. He hadn't thought Talia was involved. This would make things a lot more complicated.

 

The clone narrowed his eyes. Half his face seemed badly formed, skin stretched and mottled, like thick tree roots across his face, but it was definitely a Damian Al Ghul. Poor kid, Batman had always thought, memory and face dragged through the world as mindless clones created by a grieving mother.

 

“What does Talia want with this gang?” Batman took a step forward.

 

The clone's expression grew dark. He drew his other sword, metal hissing against the sheath. “I wouldn't know,” He said, at last.

 

Batman glared. “What do you—”

 

He leapt.

 

Robin and the clone crashed together, blades splitting the air near Tim's neck, a foot cracking into Damian's gut, sending him spinning back.

 

Batman sprang at him, but the clone was already gone, the other side of the rooftop, skidding to a halt.

 

With his mask in hand.

 

Batman glared as the clone straightened, and slipped the gas-mask back on his face.

 

“You were saying?” The contempt was clear even through the scrambling of the mask.

 

Batman straightened up too, looking hard at the clone. He seemed to be just stalling them, seeing as he'd had the perfect opportunity to slit Tim's throat but hadn't followed it through. Twice. But he couldn't bank on it staying like that. Not if he was working for Talia.

 

“If you're done talking,” The clone lifted his katanas, blades glinting sharply, “Let's dance.”

 

The boy was hard to fight.

 

The swords kept Batman and Robin mostly out of reach, and he deflected any projectiles with ease. He was toying with them, but there was nothing they could do. He never went for the throat so there was not chance to exploit a weakness or opening.

 

At one point Robin tried to sneak away from the fight, but the sentry was already there, slicing through his eyebrow and kicking him hard in the gut.

 

Batman tried to corner him but the kid just leapt straight over him, using his shoulder as a foothold and flipping onto the roof. _What kind of Batman can't even catch a kid?_ Batman gritted his teeth.

 

The boy stopped in the middle of the roof, half-crouching. He pressed a finger to the side of his mask, head tilted like he was listening to something they couldn't hear.

 

The boy slid his swords back into their sheath, moving silently to the roof's edge.

 

“Wait—” Tim started.

 

The boy was gone, disappeared into the dawning day.

 

 

*

 

 

“It just doesn't make any sense.” Tim said for, like, the hundredth time. He dropped down on the chair next to the computer, spinning aimlessly.

 

“You're telling me.” Dick stretched his fingers over the keyboard, before changing his mind and bringing up some earlier windows.

 

Dick felt different in the bat-cave. It felt like he was someone else.

 

It had never been like that with Robin, or even Nightwing. He'd just been playing a part, doing what he loved. Saving people. He'd still been Dick Grayson, just under the mask. Just with a barrier between him and the world this time.

 

But in the cave, it felt like he wasn't Dick Grayson anymore. He was in Dick Grayson's body, but his mind changed. Cooled. Sharpened.

 

“I looked back into Talia's case again,” Dick turned the chair to face Tim, gesturing at the towering screens. “It might not be just cocaine she's bring into Gotham. She's also putting out words about the alien tech left over from the battle of Manhattan. But she's being unusually subtle about it.”

 

“What would she want with that stuff? It's all deactivated,” Tim spun his chair again. His arm ached from holding the tissue against his forehead. It was a nick, barely, but it still bled directly into his eyes.

 

“I don't know. Nothing good.” Dick's fingers skittered across the keys. “SHIELD mopped up most of the tech, and most of the rest of it's been dismantled for the metal. She may yet be able to find whole pieces, however, knowing her.”

 

Tim stilled. “I don't like the idea of any Al Ghuls getting alien help.”

 

“Me either.” Dick murmured.

 

Tim knotted his hands together in his lap, staring up into the high, arching ceiling. His mind buzzed, refusing him rest from the mess of questions the evening turned up like worms. Why had Talia only sent one clone? Even though he was good, the Al Ghuls, like most of the Gotham villians, sent huge numbers of goons to any one objective.

 

And _why_ was he so good? All the other clones had been weak puppets, direction less and stupid. When you kneed them in the gut, they stayed down. This one was fast and skilled, thinking for himself and making split-second decisions without hesitating. For her to make such a large leap in her science, in only a few weeks… it was completely out of the blue.

 

Unless…

 

“You don't think...” Tim mumbled. “About the clone we fought on the roof. It couldn't be the real deal, could it?”

 

“Stranger things have happened,” Dick said, quietly.

 

Tim nodded, staring back out across the rows of trophies from someone else's war on crime. He knew them all, the missions they'd been from, the details, down to the weapons used and the time taken. The ice gun was won on a bright and breezy Tuesday, not that many years ago. The dinosaur--a gift from an early mission, sometime in late june. 

 

“It still doesn't make much sense.” Tim huffed. “I mean, why was he even there? Stalling us? For what?”

 

“I think I can answer that,” Dick pushed back from the computer. A newspaper article filled the screen.

 

**GOTHAM'S MOST VICIOUS VIGILANTE NEEDS A HELPING HAND?**

_Red Hood was spotted with a much younger vigilante, dubbed “Red Hands”, helping wipe the floor with a section of the notorious Snake Gang. Is this a Robin to Gotham's most violent protector?_

 

 

*

 

 

“Red Hands...” Jason read aloud, tasting the word. “Red Hands. Red Hood and Red Hands.”

 

Damian's bright eyes followed his pacing, expression only the average level of pissed. He was stretched over the back of the sofa like a cat, sleek and smooth. “You'd think, if they got close enough to take a picture like that, they might have called the police earlier. Or, even helped.”

 

“That's journalists for you. Slimy, ugly, nasty bunch, the lot of them.” Jason waved a hand. “Red Hands, though. That's good.”

 

“ _Inspired_.” Damian drawled.

 

“Yeah, I know.” Jason huffed. “It's good though. Nice symbolism.”

 

Damian raised an eyebrow.

 

Jason started. “Oh, symbolism's... kind of where—”

 

“-tt- I _know_ what it means, Jason.” Damian snapped. “I'm just surprised _you_ do.”

 

“I'll have you know, I'm cultured and sophisticated, when I want to be.” Jason waved the newspaper at him. “Unlike you.”

 

Damian glowered. He wasn't wrong, and that made it worse.

 

Jason leant back, feeling guilt curl in his stomach. He felt a stab of annoyance at himself, immediately after that— _God_ , his soft heart would be the death of him yet. “Do you want a curry?”

 

“Yes,” Damian vaulted over the edge of the sofa, suddenly in motion. “And _I'll_ make it, since all of your attempts end in catastrophes.”

 

Jason grumbled something rude and trotted after him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those eleven-year olds... what beefcakes  
> (man i cannot draw kids)  
> ((I drew it mainly to help me with descriptions but, damn it, I spent like 3 hours doodling costumes. Costume design is something I never tire of))
> 
> Formatting's still dodgy, sorry. 
> 
> slightly shorter chapter because I'm indecisive about what direction I'm going to go in.


	6. Chapter 6

“Where's Natasha?”

 

Coulson lifted his head, blinking in surprise. “Mr. Stark, I didn't expect—”

 

“Where _is_ she, Coulson?” Tony's glare levelled.

 

Coulson's lips thinned. “We both know you already know where.”

 

Tony bristled. His dark eyes were black with fury. “I don't know why, but I guess I thought you had some kind of common decency. Sure, you were never Captain America, you had to do what you had to do, but at the end of the day, I thought you were on our side. I thought there were lines you wouldn't cross. But I guess that was just wishful thinking.”

 

Coulson looked away.

 

Tony's fist clenched. “C'mon, Agent! Don't you feel anything?! He's just a kid!”

 

“Please, Mr. Stark,” Coulson's voice was strong. “He's not _just a kid_. Whatever you think of SHIELD, we don't lock up children unless we have to. That boy is an incredibly dangerous element.”

 

Tony glared. “He's  _eleven_ , Coulson!”

 

Coulson stilled. And sighed. “Let me show you something, Mr. Stark.”

 

Tony waited impatiently as Coulson fished his phone out of his pocket and directed it at the nearest screen. The screen filled with low definition CCTV footage that reminded Tony suddenly of the crime dramas he had watched when he was younger. It was a shop of some kind, various chocolate bars and magazines line one wall. 

 

“This footage is dated one month ago.” Coulson pressed play. 

 

Almost immediately, a large man entered the shop, waving a gun. The footage cut to the shop owner, ducking under the counter. The large man crashed into the counter and signalled for the owner to hand over the cash. It cut back to the first angle, and a boy entered the shop, even in the jumpy, poor-quality footage it was obviously Damian. The boy hid a small pistol behind his back and approached the counter. 

 

And shot the large man point blank in the chest. Without hesitation. 

 

Tony stared. 

 

The man crumpled. The footage stopped, frozen like the end of a soap opera episode. Any moment he half expected the credits to roll, Coulson to smile and tell him Natasha was visiting friends and that she'd asked them to prank him. It had all been a joke. It wasn't true. 

 

Coulson pressed another button, and the footage zoomed in on Damian's face. It couldn't zoom in very far, the image was grainy, speckled. But Damian's expression was apathetic. He looked like he had just thrown away some burnt toast, or was waiting through an ad break.

 

He didn't look like he had just taken someone's life. 

 

Tony's mouth was dry. He swallowed thickly. 

 

“You see?” Coulson turned off the screen. “That's why we have sent Agent Romanoff.”

 

Tony's gaze drifted to Coulson. He was completely speechless. 

 

“We have told her not to cause any unnecessary damage.” Coulson straightened up. “Best case scenario, we will deport him and never hear of him again.” 

 

“Worst case?” Tony's eyes narrowed. 

 

Coulson shifted. “Containment.”

 

“That's…!” Tony growled, anger returning. 

 

“He's an Al Ghul, Mr. Stark, they're not just anybody. Damian is not just a child. He is a tool, a trained weapon. The Al Ghuls are international terrorists, the worst of the worst. He's likely been trained since birth.” Coulson set his shoulders. “Whatever sympathy you feel for him is misplaced.”

 

Tony gritted his teeth. His first instinct was to yell Coulson deaf and break Damian out of whatever prison SHIELD had locked him in. But Tony hadn't survived this long by doing what his instincts told him. 

 

“ _Fine._ ” He managed. There was an uncomfortable pressure in his chest like his lungs were filling with water. It was hard to breathe, harder to speak. 

 

Coulson nodded, looking relieved. 

 

“But,” Tony ground his teeth. “On one condition.”

 

 

*

 

 

The knock at the door was wrong. 

 

Damian's bleary mind sharpened in an instant, and he was across the room, guns heavy in his hands. His breath came sharp and too loud in the dark apartment. 

 

The knock came again. Too sharp, too quick, too soft. Both Jason and the landlord thumped, heavy-fisted and angry. 

 

Damian crouched on the table, keeping an eye on the window. 

 

It could just be a false alarm, a lost child, a friendly neighbour. Damian snorted. As if Gotham had any of them. 

 

Assuming the worst was how Damian had survived this long. 

 

He couldn't use the window—that'd be what they expected. A sniper, or an ambush waiting at the bottom. Blood and death. 

 

Luckily, being prepared was also what kept him alive. He shoved the sofa aside and worked the floorboards loose. It was hard work, splinters aching under his nails. 

 

“Hey! Let me in!” Jason's voice thrummed through the door. 

 

Damian glared. He recognised the voice easily, the same timbre and tone, the same half-impatient inflection. It fit  _too_ well. It was a recording of last night. That meant surveillance, even if it was minimal. 

 

The floor boards came away like an egg cracking and he slipped through the gap as the door burst open.

 

Damian hit the ground running, ankles aching, skidding through the dusty hallway, sucking stale air. 

 

He shot the chain off the window and threw it open, leaping down onto the fire escape. 

 

The metal shuddered under him. His heart beat wildly, blood pounding. He slipped on the metal, cold sharp against his skin. 

 

He saw a flash of red above him and risked a look.

 

Red hair. 

 

The world went white. 

 

 

*

 

 

Damian lifted his head from the table. 

 

His head felt too big, his skull too tight. He squinted his aching eyes. He had to stop sleeping on the tables. They made beds for a reason. His head hurt viciously. He scrubbed a hand over his face. 

 

The room was white. 

 

Damian rubbed his eyes and squinted at the walls. White walls, bright and plasticky. It reminded him vaguely of a space ship, or a hospital. His arms were tied solidly to the table. He tugged but they weren't coming free any time soon.

 

He remembered now. The same red-haired woman he'd seen at Stark's tower had cornered him after Jason had left for patrol. He had thought he'd managed to escape—until the splitting pain that shot through his spine told him otherwise. 

 

His back still ached. 

 

It was the same people who'd tried to question him before he'd left the tower. It had been na ïve of him to think they'd just back off. Even after all this time, he was naïve and stupid and betrayed by his own lack of forethought. He scowled. 

 

Damian stamped, trying to tear his restraints off, but it didn't work. He glanced at the roof. Two cameras glinted down at him, and they were only the ones he could see. 

 

He gritted his teeth, tensing. 

 

A door opened behind him. 

 

His skin crawled. He couldn't turn around—didn't try—and the idea of someone creeping up on him made his heart lurch.

 

“You're awake.” 

 

The hairs on the back of Damian's neck prickled as the man walked past him and he forced himself not to stare. He wouldn't admit weakness. He couldn't.

 

The man sat down in front of him, out of reach but only just. If Damian wasn't retrained, he might even be close enough to strangle.

 

Damian recognised him instantly. He was the SHIELD representative from Stark Tower. If he had told Damian his name, Damian had forgotten it. But now, in the silence, Damian could look at him, really look.

 

Anywhere else, the man would draw no attention. His face, general expression, and his general feeling was one of a relatively harmless office-worker. A paper-pusher. Even his immaculate suit, crease-less and spotless, wouldn't raise any eyebrows. He had the best camouflage Damian had seen for a long time. Just as people would overlook Damian because he was very young, they would overlook this man because their eyes had simply passed over him.

 

Damian's eyes narrowed. 

 

“Are you feeling alright?” The man asked. 

 

Damian said nothing. 

 

“I wouldn't worry too much.” The man said. “We have nothing against you personally. You're just here so we can keep an eye on you.”

 

Damian raised his chin, glaring into the man's dull eyes. “You're trying to find out about the Al Ghuls. To see if I have any connection to them.”

 

The man's face seemed to get heavy. 

 

“I don't.” Damian's eyes dropped to the table. “I died three years ago, in almost every sense of the word. My mother doesn't even know I'm still alive, let alone being in contact with me. I'm not trying to get close to Stark, or whatever it is you think I'm doing. I just want to be left alone.”

 

“Don't blame me if I don't believe you.” 

 

“It's true!” Damian's eyes snapped up, sharp blue. 

 

“Then there are things you're leaving out,” the man set his hands on the table. “After the base exploded, for instance. You were heavily wounded, in the middle of the desert.”

 

Damian shifted back, unconsciously turning his face away. 

 

“And then there's almost three years that you were off the grid, without money, resources, friends or family to rely on. You were eight, grossly injured and penniless.” The man knitted his hands together. “Not to mention how you managed to travel nearly eight thousand miles and illegally enter one of the largest cities in the world unaided.”

 

“I...” Damian's expression twisted. “I had help.”

 

The man waited. 

 

“It's pointless.” Damian glared. “You won't find her on the system.” 

 

The man smiled wearily. “Let us worry about that.”

 

Damian gritted his teeth. He couldn't really explain his reluctance. It felt like, if he told them, he'd lose something precious. He glared at the table, tensing his arms. His safety was more imporatn than a feeling. “ Ananthalekshmi. She was a trader. Took me in because I reminded her of her son. She looked after me, and then I looked after her. She died last August.” 

 

“How did you get the money to look after her? Savings?”

 

“I boxed.” Damian rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. 

 

“And how did you get to America?”

 

“I stowed away.” Damian straightened up. 

 

“What ship?”

 

“I don't know.”

 

“What was it carrying? Where did you get on and off? Did it stop anywhere?”

 

“Machinery. It was an odd shape, so there were lots of empty spaces. It didn't stop before it got to America, and it docked at Gotham.” Damian wrinkled his nose. “I didn't even want to go to Manhattan.”

 

“Where did you want to go?”

 

“I wanted to stay in Gotham.” Damian closed his eyes. “I was doing fine there.”

 

“So why _did_ you go to Manhattan?” 

 

Damian swallowed, opening his eyes slowly. “Jason wanted... to see the sights.”

 

The man searched Damian's face, but couldn't tell if it was guilt or regret there. Or if he was just insecure because he was lying. “And what relation do you have to Jason?”

 

Damian thought about it. “Friends.” He decided.

 

“How did you meet?”

 

“He shot holes through my apartment floor.” Damian couldn't suppress a small grin. “Gang related stuff.”

 

“He's affiliated with a gang?” The man raised his eyebrows.

 

“Who isn't, in Gotham?” 

 

 

*

 

 

Coulson closed the door and breathed deeply. He felt like he'd aged ten years in ten minuets. He straightened his tie and kept walking. 

 

“Does it check out?” He asked the nearest agent.

 

“There was a large order of machinery for WayneTech a couple of weeks ago.” The agent brought up the shipping records. “Some of the ships came from several places in India.”

 

“Nothing else, I suppose.” 

 

“No.”

 

Coulson sighed. He didn't like this. The kid seemed honest to him, but he'd been wrong before. They wouldn't know for sure until it all went to hell in a hand-basket. Of course, if he was a mole, or a decoy, they wouldn't even know what hit them. He'd seen the aftermaths of Ra's Al Ghul, and it wasn't pretty.

 

While he was imprisoned, they needed to decide quickly. If Damian  had been a confirmed terrorist or an incredibly volatile or dangerous individual, they might be able to excuse locking him away, even temporarily. 

 

But right now they were just locking him up because of who he was related to. 

 

Still the risk was such… 

 

Coulson closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose. He hated when Tony was right. 

 

“Get the director on the phone,” Coulson said, reluctantly. “I've got a plan to approve.”

 

 

*

 

 

The band connected with a soft slither of metal moving over metal, the blue light winking out, and the join was seamless. It looked to all the world like a bulky, silver anklet. 

 

“That's the last one,” Coulson straightened up. 

 

“ _Really_. You're not going to collar me too? Tie a ball and chain to my ankle? Manacle my hands together?” Damian snarled, stepping back.  The elevator was too small to move away properly, but he tried. The anklets bounced against his bone. 

 

“Alright, drama-queen,” Tony folded his arms. “I wouldn't let them do anything like that.”

 

“But you _are_ going to let them illegally imprison me,” Damian's eyes snapped to him, “ _Indefinitely_.”

 

Tony grinned. “Trust me. You're gonna love this place. It's state-of-the-art, completely green energy-wise, cutting edge.” He tried to put an arm around Damian's shoulders but he ducked out of the way, scowling. “Look, I've even made you your own level.”

 

Damian glanced up, indecision fighting in his features. 

 

“It's got finest Persian rugs and a several carved wooden pieces of Arabic art—that, mind you, were _incredibly_ expensive, I've bought _jets_ cheaper—and a king-size bed of the finest Egyptian cotton.” 

 

Damian shifted, suppressing his good mood. “One man's treasure is another's trash.” He grumbled. 

 

“And,” Tony's grin was like a physical beam of light. “Ten different handguns, five rifles and a shooting range to rival Hawkeye's. Sixteen different swords and a couple hundred throwing knives. Heck, I think I even got you a spear or two.”

 

Damian graced him with an uneasy grin.

 

The elevator shuddered to a halt. 

 

“Here we are,” Tony spread his arms like a magician as the doors opened. 

 

It was like stepping into the halls of a king. 

 

Ivory-white walls spread out to a magnificent entrance room, the finest thick rugs a delicious red, beautiful wooden chairs, the milky wood swirled with pinky-reds. 

 

Damian might not like the regal look, but he did appreciate finery. The tiny lines and details—the single thread of gold over the sweep of red, the individual wooden petals—stole his breath. He moved slowly, hardly daring to breathe. 

 

The flowers and plants swirled across the wall, each petal and vein perfectly carved. The fault was there, he found it with ease. He rested his fingertips on the undersized petal, the admission of modesty. Without it, it would be sacrilege. 

 

“Do you like it?” Tony stepped through the elevator's doorway, closely followed by Agent Coulson. 

 

Damian took a breath. “It's great.”

 

Tony beamed bright enough to leave spots behind Damian's eyes. Damian looked away. 

 

Tony made him uncomfortable. He was unfinished business. The league thought him dead, nearly killed him, the debt he owed them was null and void. Ananthalekshmi had looked after him while he healed, and he looked after her when she sickened. The debt was paid. Settled. 

 

Damian looked back at him. He seemed genuinely pleased, hopeful. It was hard to attribute all of that happiness to repaying a life debt. But the alternative only made him more uncomfortable. He hadn't done anything to earn a look like that. 

 

“I'll leave you to get settled and everything.” Tony returned to the elevator, beckoning Coulson to follow him. “Need anything, just ask JARVIS. He's the AI hovering over all of us like the voice of god.”

 

Damian watched the elevator doors close. A sharp stab of affection cut through his chest like swallowed glass.

 

 

*

 

 

Damian reached Tony's level some time after nine. 

 

The building was too empty, like he was a ghost drifting endlessly. There was too much room, nothing he did seemed personal or seemed to calm his unease. It was too much like the empty bases he'd spent his younger years in and not enough like the crappy apartments he'd spent the last couple of months in, or the falling down half-built houses he'd lived in, in India. 

 

Tony's level was all windows, the spill of the Manhattan skyline through glass walls, all sharp edges as gliding sides. Skyscrapers were nothing like he'd imagined. 

 

Damian sat close to the icy glass, watching the city's fitful lights. It felt like he was suspended in the sky, untouchable and godly. 

 

He always felt like an interloper. Never resting, never stopping, always always moving onwards. No home, no family, no friends. Debts owed. 

 

He pressed his nose against the glass. 

 

Jason was family. 

 

But Damian had disappeared. Jason would look, but it would be fruitless. SHIELD wasn't some two-bit gangster waving a gun or a pipe around. They were trained, silent and official. 

 

He was alone again. 

 

“Damian?” Tony murmured. 

 

Damian pulled his face away from the window. The glass remembered him in streaks. 

 

“If you're here,” Tony rubbed his face. “Let's watch some good ole' American TV.”

 

Damian scrambled up, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“Hey, don't look at me like that, itty-bitty.” Tony grinned crookedly. “It's the best way to get general knowledge.”

 

Damian tilted his head, and padded over to the towering television set. Tony followed stiffly, yawning. Damian switched it on.

 

“Spongebob should be on now,” Tony fell into the sofa with a soft thump. 

 

“ _Spongebob_?” Damian raised an eyebrow. It sounded strange.

 

“Don't look at me like that.” Tony stifled a yawn. “Your friend liked it.”

 

“Jason?” Damian pulled his legs up, settling on the sofa. 

 

The show was strange. Parts were strange and oddly-detailed that made Damian's stomach turn. Other bits were just plain weird, and Damian's head ached from scowling.  They seemed to be visiting some sort of school. The next episode the odd yellow square and the pink one went to the beach,  _underwater._ Damian glared. 

 

“This is hardly an accurate depiction of—...” Damian trailed off. 

 

Tony snored quietly beside him.

 

Damian sighed, switching the television off. He felt calmer, steadier. He could work with this. 

 

He pulled a blanket over Tony's shoulders and disappeared  downstairs . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cowritten with my counter-productive-but-eager cat who enjoyed standing on the delete key. 
> 
> she says: 
> 
>  
> 
> 09
> 
>  
> 
> mj22222222222222299999,0n


	7. Chapter 7

Damian sat on the edge of the blue-lighted pool, not a hair of him passing the white tiles. He stared down in to the clear, bright water. It almost didn't seem real.

 

“C'mon kiddo, it's not even cold,” Tony waved his arms, beckoning him in.

 

Damian shifted a little closer to edge, but stopped.

 

“Can't you swim?” Tony's eyes seemed sharper, as if he'd only just realised that possibility.

 

Damian shrugged. “I can swim short distances and recover myself when thrown in deep water.”

 

Tony grinned. “Then it's fine, right? Come in.”

 

Damian drew his knees up under his chin and let out a non-committal hum. It was strange, being asked. His memories of water were all tied up with thrashing and the horrible lurch of heavy fear. Water in his lungs and forcing it out, righting himself under a capsized ship, dark ponds and thick seaweed.

 

Tony watch him carefully, but calmly. Manhattan was nice at night, cool enough that the hot tub wasn't sweltering, warm enough that it wasn't painful. The heat that curled up from the shinning metal during the day kept it warm like a blanket at night.

 

Damian slipped his feet into the water. It was oddly warm.

 

Tony waited.

 

Damian shot him a dark glare and Tony pretended to be interested in one of the trashing magazines he was reading.

 

Damian let out a sigh.

 

It was… different, being allowed to do things at his own pace. Not bad, just different. The legion had driven him like a ship in a storm, merciless and unrelenting, never allowing anything but perfection. There was no safe home for him. The roof had to be kept, the food bought, the safety earned. He had to fight and if he stopped fighting he would starve.

 

And yet, now…

 

He crept closer to the edge, legs dangling over. The water swirled around his skin, hot and clean and fresh.

 

Tony peeked over the edge of the magazine.

 

Damian smiled at him, a little bit of guarded happiness.

 

Tony felt affection bubble up in his chest like an alien baby waiting to burst out. Very weird feelings.

 

 

*

 

Damian flipped through the book and quirked an eyebrow at Tony. 

 

“I know, right? Books are _so_ fifteenth century,” Tony murmured, flicking his hand over the holograms. The blue light spilled bright onto his skin, almost alien. 

 

Damian smoothed out the first page and glanced over it. It was well set out, and while English was still difficult to read, he remembered enough of it to complete it easily. 

 

The history was more challenging. Learning it all from scratch was irritatingly slow. He noted down important events in Arabic in the corners, dates and foreign names slipping through his mind. He'd memorise a bunch and then take a test, but the test required different knowledge, and he ended up getting only thirty or forty percent. He grumbled angrily. 

 

The letters were making his head spin. It had been years since he had actually read anything in any language. 

 

His eyes slide off the page, drawn to the pictures. Here, an old man with an expensive coat and expressionless face. Here, a map of America, split through with lines like a cracked photo-frame. Here, a ship going down in the Arctic. Here, a skinny child weeping, covered in red welts. 

 

“Are you okay?” Tony asked, suddenly. “You don't have to do it all today.”

 

“I'm fine,” Damian muttered. 

 

 

*

 

 

“Got any three's?”

 

“No.”

 

“You're supposed to say 'Go Fish'.” Tony let out a long-suffering sigh, picking up a card from the pile.

 

Damian shot him a withering look.

 

“Don't look at me like that, we'd be playing poker if it wasn't for Captain Censor over there,” Tony grumbled.

 

“Gambling is illegal for someone his age, Tony,” Steve huffed. He turned to Damian and his expression softened. “It's your turn, son.”

 

“Do you have any…” Damian barely glanced at his cards. “Fives?”

 

“No, Go fish,” Steve said.

 

“Are you _sure_ you don't? It might be in with the stick up your ass.” Tony grinned.

 

“Tony!” Steve scolded, shooting a worried glance Damian's way.

 

“I don't see what the problem is,” Damian muttered. “I'm already trained in nearly all forms of entertainment, including card-games.”

 

“Seriously? They had time to train you to play poker in between all that ninja stuff?” Tony raised an eyebrow.

 

“Espionage,” Damian shrugged. “Strategically winning and losing games in order to move closer to a target. Blending in.”

 

Tony wavered. “I don't see how well you can blend in at your age.”

 

Damian grinned, tilting his head backwards. His dark eyelashes slanted towards his cheeks, blinding grin razor-sharp. “You don't see the advantage of a night of fast luck beside a pretty young boy?”

 

Something cold settled in Tony's stomach. He gripped his cards a bit tighter. It was the way he said it, it was unsettling. Like it was nothing.

 

“Any, uh, any sixes, Tony,” Steve said, a little too loud.

 

Tony jumped. “Ah, sure,” He yanked them out of his hand and spun them awkwardly over the table.

 

Damian returned to his hand, boredom settling in again. It had only been, what, a day? If he added up the time since he'd been, well, basically imprisoned, to now, it had been around 73 hours. If anyone thought these rich people led interesting lives, they were sorely mistaken. He missed Jason.

 

“Hey? Damian, hello?” Tony waved slowly. “Still with us, bud?”

 

Damian fixed him with a glare.

 

“Any Aces?” Tony asked.

 

Damian dropped his cards on the desk and stood up, knocking his chair back. “I quit.”

 

“Whoa, kid, you're the life and soul of this party, you can't quit!” Tony yelped.

 

“I already quit.” Damian repeated, setting the stool neatly back under the table. “If I could quit again, I would.”

 

Damian left silently, padding like a cat.

 

“Hmph.” Tony scowled a little, and then gave up. “Yeah, I might stop now anyway. Don't want to ruin cards for myself.” He dropped his cards on the table, stretching. “What kind of playboy would I be if I couldn't waste incredible amounts of money on poker?”

 

Steve sighed and helped collect the cards. He stole a look around the empty doorway, but Damian was long gone.

 

“I worry about that child,” Steve said quietly, busying himself with shuffling the cards.

 

“Right,” Tony rested on the table. “I don't. He's as tough as old boots. The kid could probably take on the Fury and win. Trust me.”

 

But as hard as he tried, the uneasy feeling wouldn't leave Tony's stomach. He guess it was just his inner engineer worrying him. It saw something broken, something wrong and wanted to fix it. But if there was one thing Tony was particularly bad at, it was people.

 

“If you need me, I'll be somewhere,” Tony waved his hand, heading towards the elevator.

 

He stepped into the elevator, listening for the soft sound of doors closing behind him. He sighed again, scratching his chest. Was ten am too early for scotch?

 

 

*

 

 

Getting into Tony's lab had been easy.

 

Tony had showed it to him on the tour, hesitantly and almost reverently. Tony hung back and said next to nothing, like he was _almost_ nervous, but not quite. And he had been glad to move on. Damian did feel a little bad about breaking into a place that was obviously very important, but guilt had never stopped him before.

 

Getting in was easy, trying to cut the bracelets off his hands was pretty hard.

 

For one, he couldn't find many saws small enough and while there were many welding irons, they weren't much use. As it was he had to sit awkwardly, foot hovering over the vice.

 

He tightened it over the metal and briefly wondered if there was any sort of alarm in them. It seemed pretty likely.

 

Damian sliced cleanly through the bracelet. He grinned.

 

He tugged his other leg, nearly overbalancing. He only had a few minuets before SHIELD would put the tower into lock-down, if they hadn't already. He could fight a few soldiers, especially if they weren't used to fighting kids, but no amount of fighting prowess would help him against a steel wall.

 

The other anklet fell to the floor with a clatter.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Damian's blood ran cold.

 

Tony took another step into the lab, face unreadable.

 

“What does it _look_ like?” Damian didn't face him, couldn't look at him. He hated the guilt that twisted in his gut—where did the American get off, making him guilty? He owed him nothing, if anything, it was Stark who should feel guilty.

 

Damian slipped off the worktop, standing defiantly.

 

“JARVIS, put the tower into lock down, notify Coulson,” Tony murmured.

 

“ _On it, sir._ ” JARVIS chimed.

 

“ _ **No**_ **!** ” Damian snarled, anger exploding in his chest. He rounded on Tony, fire lighting his eyes.

 

“Sorry kid,” Tony shrugged, “Those—”

 

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up you shitty American and listen to me!” Damian snarled, venom dripping thick from his voice, jabbing Tony in the chest, “The only reason—the _only fucking_ reason—you give a _shit_ about me is because I'm the _only_ person of all the _hundred_ you've killed that has a _face_!”

 

Tony stumbled back.

 

“You're _not_ going to treat me like an exotic _pet_ so you can get an absolve from guilt,” Damian slapped Tony's chest, “So leave me the _fuck_ alone!”

 

Damian shoved past Tony and disappeared around the bend like a roll of thunder.

 

 

*

 

 

The boy came in one afternoon and Bruce didn't quite know what to do with him.

 

He was eleven years old, small and dark, with the eyes and temperament of a wild animal. He had scraggly black hair and thin arms and moved with a sort of determination that was hard to say no to. He knew who he was, of course, he was the child Tony had sort-of taken under his wing, but Bruce had no idea how or even why he had snuck onto Bruce's floor.

 

“What, uh, what are you doing?!” Bruce yelped, hands hovering just over the boy's shoulders.

 

The boy didn't seem to notice him, ducking under his arm and rummaging through the chemical draw.

 

“Whoa, whoa, those are dangerous!” Bruce waved his arms, feeling useless.

 

The boy settled on the floor, setting various bottles of acids around him like paint pots. Oh god—he wasn't even wearing shoes.

 

Bruce picked up the bottles and began putting them back. “Look, you can't just—you _can't_ just come in here and use this sort of stuff. It's not—they aren't _toys_.”

 

The boy shot him a nasty look—the first time he'd actually acknowledged Bruce's presence. He lifted onto his heels, tugging out a handwritten list of chemicals. “I need these.”

 

Bruce took the list, glancing it over. “Trans-cinnamic acid, propylparaben, sali—What, what are you _making_?”

 

The boy's gaze snapped to his.

 

“Look, I'm not exactly—...” Bruce straightened up, edging away, “I'm not exactly _kid-friendly_. Why don't you just go, alright? ”

 

The boy's gaze stayed on him for a few more minutes, and then he rocked back on his heels, a smirk sharpening his features. “You're the Hulk.”

 

Bruce nearly winced. “Ah, yeah… that's me.”

 

The boy leapt at him.

 

Bruce clattered backwards, heart beating wildly. He stared.

 

The boy folded the list, a self-satisfied sneer darkening his eyes. He dropped back down, pulling out the bottles again, giving off the air of a cat who got the cream.

 

“What—hey, can you even hear me?!” Bruce yelped.

 

Apart from the insufferable smugness the boy ignored him.

 

“Look, why do you even need my chemicals?!” Bruce waved his arm, trying attract attention, exasperated. “I'm sure Tony's lab has just as much.”

 

The boy set a few of the chemicals on the worktop and began replacing all of the other ones.

 

“Hey! Hello?!” Bruce slammed a palm on the plastic surface. “At least tell me what you're doing!”

 

The boy fetched a Bunsen burner, digging out a few boiling tubes. “I'm making an antidote.” The boy said.

 

“An... antidote?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “What kind?”

 

“Man-bat antidote.” The boy looked at Bruce sideways, teeth gleaming. “A... friend of mine is pretty sick of shooting them down non-fatally all the time.”

 

“I'm sorry, what's a _Man-bat_?” Bruce frowned.

 

“A bat and a man hybrid,” the boy began to pour some pale chemical into the boiling tube—without gloves _or_ goggles, _God—_ Bruce wanted to snatch them off him but that would mean touching him which was a big no-go. _Kids_ especially. Stress-free alternative _my ass_. The kid continued, “The serum was originally supposed to increase hearing, but it instead creates a hybrid monster that is incredibly violent and aggressive. It wears off eventually, but the antidote reverses the change immediately.”

 

“Oh.” Bruce said. 

 

The boy dropped the boiling tube into the rack and started digging around for a lighter. 

 

“Look, why don't you leave me with instructions and I'll make it? I could use a break, actually,” Bruce ran a hand through his hair.

 

“I want to be useful,” The boy mumbled. 

 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. 

 

The boy flustered, nearly dropping the box of matches. “I  _mean_ —how can I be  _sure_ you won't mess this up? It's very important.”

 

“I have a doctorate,” Bruce suggested. 

 

“I don't _want_ your help!” The boy snarled. “And you can't—” The boy made a swipe at Bruce's belly. Bruce leapt back, fear spiking in his chest. “— _stop_ me,” The boy grinned, knife-sharp, turning back to the chemicals. 

 

“I wish you'd stop doing that,” Bruce scowled, “It's not a _joke_.”

 

The boy's grin would give the Cheshire Cat a run for his money.

 

“It's not funny! I'm dangerous, if you didn't know,” Bruce felt frustration rise in his stomach and hated that even more. 

 

The boy's expression soured. “Of the six people in this tower who could kill me effortlessly, the Hulk would be the worst choice.”

 

Bruce  shifted, surprised.

 

“For one, low movability. The near twenty-foot stature means that he is more likely to cave in the ceiling before he even swings his first punch. The cluttered nature of the lab means that the Hulk would have to devote at least a little attention to moving around and clearing pathways. The Hulk is also slower due to his size, which means that I would probably be able to reach the stairwell in time to set the tower into lock-down.” The boy rattled off easily, swapping test-tubes. “That's not even relying on the various fail-safes and alarms SHIELD has installed to react with the signature grunts and growls associated with the moments before a change.”

 

Bruce stared. “That's...” 

 

“Don't flatter yourself, I profile everyone,” The boy muttered darkly. 

 

The boy turned his gaze away. “Black Widow has already easily outmatched me, and I assume Hawkeye is similarly trained. Thor is a warmongering God, trained since birth in weaponry and combat with age, skill and pure muscle mass on his side, as well as supernaturally gifted. Steve Rodgers is a  _super soldier_ , the perfect weapon made flesh. And then there's Stark—”

 

“Tony would _never_ —”

 

“ _Tony Stark_ has already killed me once!” The boy shouted, knuckles white, “I was still awake while my flesh burned and my blood boiled!”

 

Bruce took a step back, watching the boy carefully. Surrounded in the sharp contrast of clean floors and expensive chemicals he looked feral. The blue of his eyes reminded him of the wild dogs that trailed the edges of the towns in Calcutta, always watching, never hungry enough to approach.

 

The Bunsen burner flipped strange shadows over the twisted burn, flickers of colour like seams of gold across his skin. The boy's eyes snapped shut and Bruce could almost see him pushing anger down, calming himself forcefully. 

 

“When I was nine,” The boy said, quietly, “my loosing opponents' family—I used to box for bread under railways—they cornered me coming out of my match, when I was too tired to fight them off. They beat me into the dirt, until I coughed up my milk teeth, until I wept blood, until I blacked out. I thought I was going to die—I thought I _was_ dead.” The boy rubbed his face, scowling, “But I survived.”

 

Bruce breathed softly, not daring to make a sound. 

 

“Do you understand?” The boy rounded on Bruce, “I'm not scared of you, because anything the Hulk can do to me has _already been done_.” 

 

Bruce shifted back, regarding him with fresh eyes. The dark hair, the wiry, lithe frame. The bare, tough-soled feet. 

 

“Ok?” The boy asked, tilting his head. 

 

“Ok.” Bruce said, reluctantly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly late chapter because I was writing an article about sharks 
> 
> Changed the title! I think this one fits a lot better, personally. 
> 
> I had a weird idea that I'd finish this before summer ended, but that seems unlikely, so don't hold your breath for new chapters. But I will finish this and everything, don't worry.


	8. Chapter 8

The bunker was dark and the air was thick like the base had been holding its breath for years. The chemical green of the Tritium lights warped the cave's shadows, twisting them oddly. It smelt like a crypt.

It was nearing the ugly side of midnight, having been awake for nearly twenty hours, and while lesser souls may slow or give up, Talia Al Ghul, Leviathan and daughter of the Messiah of the Crimson Sun, was no lesser soul. Still, the late hour was getting to her still, her was attention flagging. She was typing with half a brain, which was bad because she needed everything she had if she was going to break this code.

The computer flashed up a firewall.

She stretched her stiff spine and scanned through the lines of glaring white text, eyebrow arched.

It had been a frivolous thought and had developed into a challenge of wits. The alien technology investigation fell through: apparently they were hunks of complex metal so far away from their power source. No sort of power they ran through it worked, and when they showered it in gamma rays it seized up and convulsed like a heart before lying still, a useless wedge of iron.

Talia had been in a foul mood and, like always, her thoughts had drifted down familiar lanes. One woman she had worked with a year ago had joked that Talia's luck had died with her son, and while the woman had not lived to repeat it, it stuck with her…

Talia's nails clattered across the keyboard, her face twisting sourly. It was finally time to get her revenge.

The computer flashed again. It had almost entered this time, before one of Stark's viruses had been detected.

She grumbled and leant back in her chair, drumming her nails on the dusty desk. Her hacking abilities were good—word class, if she believed that brown-nosing computer specialist—but it was all she could do to avoid attracting a virus and cover her own tracks. She had barely gotten into any level of confidentiality, let alone the tycoon's daily plan.

Her phone buzzed.

With a brief scowl she flipped it on.

"What?" She asked, voice flat.

" _My lady—we're sorry to disturb you but we've captured a rather interesting... creature._ "

Talia's gaze lightened. "Tell me more."

 

 

*

 

 

The morning light stretched softly through the huge spotless windows, slow across the ancient, honey-coloured oak and the sharp, finely cast iron. It looked too spacious and too overly furnished at once. The entire room glowed.

Damian's eyes flickered open with a sigh.

The sofa was nice. It sunk around him, moulding into his side and engulfing him. It was warm too. He shifted his head a little, pressing his chin into the soft leather and staring out into the city below him.

Manhattan's sunrise had an almost magical quality to it. The sun smoothed over the tangled lines, the abrasive complexities. In the morning, the city looked simple. It was calming, even if it was only for a little while. It looked approachable, easy.

Damian pushed himself onto his elbows, belly still warm against the leather.

Truth be told, he had always disliked mornings like the horse disliked the plough. It signalled the end of the quiet and still of night and the beginning of the grind. He had to wake and work and hope he avoided attention long enough that he didn't pick his bloody baby teeth out of the gutter again.

But this morning, as he woke with the sun, he'd woken with absolutely no desire to move. So he didn't.

He pressed his cheek into the sofa's arm letting his gaze wonder around the room.

The finished serums caught the sun and the vivid green liquid paled in the light. The sight stirred pride his heart. He had been so proud, preening under the surprised compliments of the doctor. It had taken so long, so many batches lacking the right balances and so many failed to be completed at all.

He smiled, and rolled over, curling up against the back of the sofa.

The window exploded inwards.

The shriek shot through Damian's ears but he was already moving, vaulting over the back of the sofas as shadows skittered across the walls. He snatched a glance backwards.

A huge shape twisted its straight limbs, letting a thin, shaking snarl through a twisted snout. Fine hair glowed over the edges of its back like slick gold paint. The leather of its wings crinkled like plastic.

The man-bat.

Damian ducked back, legs tensed like coiled springs to jump. Finally some _actual_ luck.

The man-bat leapt first.

It crashed into the table with a sound like a crack of thunder, shattering glass and sending the antidote across the floor in a shower of green.

Damian skittered backwards, heart racing as the green liquid pooled over the floorboards.

The terrible creature lifted its smashed snout to the air, twitching, its milky eyes rolling in its skull.

No time to grieve, he guessed. Damian jumped over the coffee table and into the armoury, the Man-bat lurching after him.

The Man-bat leapt over his head, crashing against the set of rifles, shaking his head in the ruins of metal. It snarled, saliva running down its raw skin, curling its brittle fingers around a bar and tensing its muscles to leap again.

Damian skidded out of the way as the beast collided with the metal next to his head. The smell was horrible and almost physical, like rotting wood and a deep, stomach turning smell of neglect.

Damian ran to the over side of the room, scooping a gun from the floor and loading it with the butt of his hand.

The man-bat picked itself off the wall, teeth glinting like needles. It curled its fingers into the wooden floor and lifted its wings, snarling.

When Man-bat leapt again, Damian was ready.

 

 

*

 

 

Tony was running.

Tony's heart raced painfully in his chest, every step shaking his nerves. He thundered up the stairs, ears ringing.

Another gunshot split the air, louder as he got closer.

The sounds had woken him up, the crashes and gunshots. It shook the ceiling, sending dust cascading down.

Tony reached another level and leaps up the stairs two-at-a-time. His lungs ached but he can't stop and he couldn't slow down.

A door crashed open to his right and Natasha started sprinting next to him. She overtook easily, leaping over the railings and scrambling upwards. She reached Damian's level and threw open the door with a crack of wood, sprinting inside.

Tony could hear her footsteps stop, suddenly.

There was a silence then, a terrible silence.

Tony struggled after her, legs weak. He pushed inside, fear clawing sickeningly at his stomach.

The living room was a mess, the sofa upended and the glass table shattered. A neon green chemical spread gently across the broken glass. The room was freezing, wind whipping in from a huge hole in the glass window.

Natasha stood unmoving in the doorway.

"What—he's not—..." Tony stumbled forwards, heart sinking, legs weak. His voice cracked. " _Is_ he…?"

Natasha stepped aside.

Damian stood over the body of something terrible. It was like something grown in a lab, mutated, bulbous body and thin, sinew-lined limbs. Its face was a mash of flesh and bone, a snuffling, twitching nose, sneezing blood.

Damian was elbow-deep in drying blood, a knife gripped tight in one hand and the other arm hanging awkwardly. His shoulders shook very slightly.

"Oh, thank god," Tony huffed, holding an arm to the wall to steady himself. "Thank god—thank _Jesus_. I thought— _fuck_ , I _thought_..."

"Get Doctor Banner up here... with the antidote," Damian mumbled, voice strained. His knife hand shook a little more as he started to uncurl his fingers. "It's—it... should be… in the fridge."

"Your arm," Natasha asked, gazing flicking up from the twitching body.

"Dislocated." Damian finally let go of the knife. It clattered to the floor loudly.

"Come here." Natasha beckoned.

The creature let out a sharp whine as Damian stepped off it, like air being let out of a balloon. Tony's thoughts caught up with him and he hobbled off to find a phone.

Natasha bent his limp arm, turning it until it slipped back into place with a sickening pop. Damian grimaced.

Natasha kept her hand on his elbow for a moment. Her grip was hard but her hands were warm. "That was talented, shooting that thing down."

"It wasn't," Damian grumbled. His voice was rough. "I was already in an armoury."

"Still." She squeezed his shoulder once, and stepped back. "Good job on not dying."

"Mm." Damian rubbed at his shoulder, turning his arm. "Thank you."

Natasha gave the impression of smiling without actually smiling. Her posture softened.

"What is that thing anyway?" Tony asked, rounding the corner. His knees were still a little weak, but the colour had returned to his face.

Damian stood stock still, muscles still tensed. Blood ran from his hairline and curved a path across his cheek. His eyes were hard and bright, blue rings of solid ice.

"The Man-Bat." Damian rubbed at the crusting blood on his forearms with distaste. "Also known as Dr. Kirk Langstrom."

"He's a doctor?" Tony rubs at his chest. "Wow. They really will let anyone through medical school, won't they?"

Damian shoots him an odd look, like he doesn't know if he'd joking or not. "It's a formula that changes DNA. It wears off eventually, but the antidote reverses the change immediately."

"It's lucky you already made a bunch then," Tony rubbed at his knuckles. The jumpy feeling in his chest hadn't faded and he was still on edge.

"Yes." Natasha's eyes were sharp. " _Lucky_."

"It doesn't matter now," Damian grumbled, stepping silently past them. His bare feet left deep red footprints. "I'm going in the shower."

 

 

*

 

 

Bruce opened the door to the ruined room and sighed. "Oh man..."

"What's up, doc?" Natasha leaned against the wall above some kind of large, wounded animal.

"I thought Tony's new stray was going to be the last surprise, at least until Monday or so," Bruce walked over to the… thing. It looked like a badly done werewolf cosmetic, the wolf's snout pushed back into its face and the teeth too big for its mouth.

"Imagine that," Natasha smiled a little. "A whole weekend with no nasty surprises."

Bruce hooked an arm awkwardly around the creature's neck to check its pulse. It snuffled a little, and Bruce flinched. He knew the creature was just a man like him, but it was hard to connect the horrible face with the good doctor. Huh.

The hair under his hand was thick and bristly. He filled a little syringe with the antidote, flicking it to dislodge any bubbles and gently slid it into the vein of its neck. The creature made a shuffling huff.

A phone rang.

With a start, Bruce's head snapped up. He glanced around, expecting to see Tony or a phone ringing on the wall.

Instead, Natasha pulled out a phone he'd never seen before and answered it in German. Bruce stared at her.

The creature moved under his hands and he peeled his gaze away. It made a panting, huffing noise that shifted in and out of a high-pitched whine, as the hair on its neck pulled back into its skin and its bones began to shrink inside his flesh.

In seconds the creature was a man again, shaking and covered in blood, and Bruce was a flurry of action, strapping bandages to him and staunching the blood flow.

"Hey, can you call a—" Bruce starts breathlessly, but Natasha is already gone.

 

 

*

 

 

Natasha takes a breath. It's a rare day when Manhattan is bright and crisp enough for the buildings to look freshly cut and sharp and the sky is the palest, richest blue. As she turns another corner, passing a bakery that fills the air with a warm, yeasty smell, she spots what she is looking for.

The Little Satisfaction Coffee Shop is worth noting for two reasons. The first is that it brews the strongest, most caffeinated coffees in the state, possibly even the country, (it would be the world, too, if not for a small teashop in London called _Beggar & Bell_, run by a woman who seems more teeth than face) and still manages to make their drinks somewhat palatable. In fact, some of them don't even make customers gag a little.

The second is that almost all of its customers are SHIELD agents.

Which reason came first, the astonishingly caffeinated drinks attracting the agents or the agents demanding the drinks, is lost to the depths of time.

The bell tinkled when Natasha opened the door. The inside of the shop was dim and smelt powerfully of coffee grinds. There were a few agents milling about, but it was hardly the most crowded she'd seen it. She spotted the person she was looking for easily.

Agent Diaz tapped aimlessly at her laptop, not looking up as Natasha walked over. She had the kind of face that was incredibly easy to forget, normal hair and eyes a sort of non-colour, like the muddle a child makes when they paint over things too quickly, before they have a chance to dry.

Natasha sits opposite her, and Agent Diaz closes her laptop.

"Agent Coulson has made a real pig's ear of this, I tell you," The agent says, shaking her head a little. Her voice always surprised Natasha. It seemed too strong and too rich to come out of someone so unremarkable.

"Stark is hardly something to be played lightly." Natasha said, half-awkwardly. She feels slightly protective of both of them.

"Hmph. Avengers initiative was always hard work. A tough thing to balance." Agent Diaz runs a hand over the laptop's smooth back. "Do you want a coffee?"

"No."

"Good. I don't have any more money on me." Agent Diaz drummed her fingers on the laptop's top. "The Al Ghuls have always been a sore spot with the higher-ups. Someone who's got just enough fingers in just enough pies to keep him blameless. And now his dead son's allied himself with the most volatile avenger… Maybe I should have taken the week off. It was my birthday yesterday, you know? Some present."

"What did you want, Agent, if you don't mind?"

"Ah yes. There's been a disturbance. I want to know what it was."

"The Man Bat, apparently."

"He recognised it immediately? The Al Ghul child, I mean."

"Yes." Natasha said, a little reluctantly. She straightened her spine, shaking off her hesitation. "He'd already made a handful of antidotes."

"It could be coincidence. A poorly thought out attempt at appearing heroic, perhaps? The beasty just got the wrong room? Unlikely, unlikely," Agent Diaz's gaze flickered to the window, eyebrows furrowing.

Natasha waited impatiently for the Agent's attention to return. It happened every now and then. A higher-ranking specialist Agent from another region is shuffled in, and they call either her or Barton out simply to bounce ideas off. She'd been through worse, but it was irritating. It was like they thought she had nothing better to do with her time.

"In the interview, he mentioned a friend, I think? Gang related criminal, apparently goes by Jason. I've had a warrant out, but there wasn't a whole lot of evidence left at the scene. Don't expect miracles, we don't actually have a foothold in Gotham."

"We don't?" Natasha's eyebrow rose.

"I'm not surprised you don't know. We like to pretend we're infallible, because we're pretty fucked if we aren't. But no, we don't. Gotham's underside isn't like Manhattan's, it's not just one or two super-villains shaking magic rods or whatever. It's a whole damn stream of madness, every one of them, every citizen." She took a long sip of coffee. "And they're smart too. Every single squad we send out there gets carved up within a month. I don't know how they keep finding out, but they do."

"It's a nasty place," Natasha said, flatly.

"That's the truth." Agent Diaz ran a hand through her unremarkable hair. "I want you to keep an eye on the Al Ghul kid. Setting up cameras, preferably. Make sure he's not manipulating Mr. Stark in anyway. That's all we can really do at the moment. We can't do any more, not with Mr. Stark looking after the brat." She sighed. "Jesus they're both as bad as each other."

Natasha kept her gaze fixed on the table. Maybe she should have had a coffee. "Is that all?" She asked, trying to keep her tone professional.

"Yes, yes. You can go." Agent Diaz waved her away.

Natasha stood, a little relieved, and—

"Romanoff?" Agent Diaz said, suddenly. She let out a breath, reluctantly, and fixed her gaze on Natasha. "Don't underestimate him, alright? Even if he's half your size, his body count gives yours a run for it's money. I mean it."

Natasha regarded the Agent. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

 

 

*

 

 

Damian stepped into what was left of his living room feeling clean and tired. The chilling air stung his shower-freshened skin, and he winced.

"Hey, kid," Tony mumbled. "I made you pancakes."

Damian padded over to the table, eyebrow raised. There were indeed pancakes there, but it was hard to believe Stark of all people had made them. They weren't blackened and crusted, for one. "You've gotten better." He said.

Tony shrugged and pushed the plate over to him. "I know, right? It looks like there's nothing I can't master."

Damian grinned. Egotistical as ever, it seemed. Some things never changed. He dug into his pancakes.

"So, any idea why the Manly Bat wanted to trash this place?" Tony asked, trying and failing to sound off-hand.

"I don't know. Have you done anything worth ruining lately?"

"Me? Why would he be after me? I've hardly ever been to Gotham."

"This building's got your name on it, in huge letters. If he's after anyone it's going to be you." Damian cut a hunk out of his pancake and swallowed it without chewing. He was suddenly incredibly hungry. "Besides, nobody knows I'm here."

"Yeah." Tony huffed. "But if you'll believe it, I've actually been an upstanding citizen for a while. I've not really had the chance to make any scandals, not recently anyway. So unless Mr. Ugly got lost for a couple months, I don't really know."

Damian grunted.

"Hey..." Tony scrubbed at the back of his neck, for once in his life lost for words.

Damian glanced up at him. His eyes were sharp and calculative, even now. Even at rest. He didn't know why he was surprised.

He had seen Damian kill before. The first time he'd met him, he'd seen it in his eyes. A face harder than a lump of granite. He'd watched him slice through other ninjas— _friends? Allies?_ —like a harvester cutting corn, knife passing through them like butter. He hadn't worried, then. Hadn't thought too hard about it, to be honest. Damian was just another boy soldier—something terrible, _sure_ , something awful, _definitely_ , but something that happened in far-off countries whose names he couldn't spell to boys he'd never met.

Damian watched him, putting down his fork.

In Tony's home, in America, right in front of him, Damian seemed almost younger. Barely a bean sprout, but one with teeth. Vampiric beansprouts raced through Tony's mind and he almost grinned. Mixing metaphors was a bad habit.

"I'm sorry." Damian said, quickly. "For what I said a few days ago. I had no right. You let me into your home, provided for me, and I threw it back in your face."

"Oh." Tony shook his thoughts away. "That?—oh, nah, don't worry about it. It's fine. Honestly you kind-of had a point."

Damian raised an eyebrow. " _Kind_ -of?"

Tony grinned. "Don't push your luck, kid."

 

 

*

 

 

"It looks like you need a new place to hang out," A voice called from the doorway.

Damian nearly jumped, darting his head around.

Natasha Romanoff leant against the door frame. Her stance was smooth and catlike, but her eyes were sharp, like chips of green glass.

Damian watched her warily. He wondered for a moment if she was going to kick him out. He half wanted her to, but he doubted she had the authority.

"You know, you're not the only one with an armoury." She said, smoothly.

Damian's eyes widened suddenly, and then narrowed. He leant back a little, gaze flickering over her features, trying to determine a motive. "Neither are you."

She dipped her head up a little, raising a perfect eyebrow. "Your transition needs work."

Damian blinked. "Pardon?"

"You used capoeira a little shakily, but well, and you can do Krav Maga acceptably, but you wobbled when you changed fighting styles." She regarded him cooly. "If the bat had been able to see, it would have killed you."

Damian glared. "And you'd be the expert on that, would you?"

"I am, actually." Her green eyes hardened into something else. An accusation, maybe. A challenge.

Damian watched her carefully. "Alright." He stood up, straightening his spine. He cracked his knuckles. "Alright. Lead the way."

Natasha smiled, just a little.

 

 

*

 

 

Talia Al Ghul dropped the magazine back on the rack with a sigh. It had taken a couple of days to arrange a flight to America, and she'd hoped to arrive in time for the funeral. She had even brought a wonderfully fitting dress to pose as an exotic foreign lover. But alas, it was not to be.

It had been a long shot, especially with all of the Avengers currently residing there, but at least the heat-sensing lasers her underlings insisted existed turned out to be a false rumour. The disgusting man would have to fork out for new windows at least.

Talia picked up her thin black breifcase from baggage collection and walked out of Gotham International Airport without looking back.

There was more than one reason for coming to America anyway.

Gotham was finally warming up, but the breeze and the long shadows the skyscrapers cast kept it habitable. The city seemed to be breathing a collective sigh of relief.

Talia walked along the pavement with an air of importance and determination that parted other pedestrians like the red sea.

The little tearoom was green and boxy, tucked between two towering skyscrapers like it was plugging a draft. The windows were yellowing and single-paned, plastered with years-old advertisements for open mic nights and karaoke evenings. It was only a short stroll from the airport, which was probably the only thing it had going for it.

The bell chimed as she opened the door.

She set her briefcase on the nearest table, and sat down opposite the man sitting there.

"It's been a long time," She murmured, voice sweet, "Jason Todd."

Jason grinned darkly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to find out my my thoughts on things, read stories that are too short or otherwise unsuitable for ao3, as well as look at my fanart and (hopefully, in a little while) read my fancomics, [I have a tumblr now.](http://plasmaworm.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I don't know if Gotham comic-verse has an actual airport or not, but it's in the dark knight rises, which is enough for me. Plus, if I used some other airport, I'd have to decide how far away that was, and whether we needed a travel scene, and that would be like deciding where Gotham actually IS, which is, to DC executives, a cardinal sin apparently. And yes, I did consider just sticking Talia in a cannon and shooting her towards America.
> 
> This chapter is better formatted :)
> 
> I've also sought advice and practiced connecting my writing so the actual passage of time makes sense and is coherent. Hurrah!! 
> 
> Also, Natasha's been a key enough character to earn her spot in the character tag! It kind-of felt like cheating if I added her earlier. Same with Talia. Double Hurrah!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for how long it took to get this last chapter up. Honestly, if you needed to reread the rest of the chapters to understand this one, I don't blame you, I actually did too. I don't really have an excuse as to why it took me over a year to update this... but I did eventually finish this! I just want to say thank you so much for the kudos and comments, the feedback for this fic was really what solidfied fanfiction as my favourite hobby! You're all such sweethearts, and I hope this chapter was worth the wait!!

Damian leapt forwards, right fist sailing upwards. Natasha slapped his hand away, her back foot pivoting as she slammed her own fist into Damian's throat.

Damian whirled back, knees giving out with a whump. The world spun, pitching forward sickeningly as Damian tried to force air back into his throat. Cartilage crunched as he swallowed, eyes fizzing like his head was full of bees.

Natasha stood over him, impassive.

Finally, Damian managed to drag enough oxygen into his lungs to scowl and stumble upwards. His throat throbbed, but hurt no less than his ankle or his stomach or his chest, or any other place Natasha had attacked. It took her no more than three moves.

“Your form is terrible,” she said.

Natasha's form was sleek and quick, like an eel in water, and in comparison Damian felt slow and lumbering. Damian grunted, massaging his neck.

Natasha unwound the bandages around her knuckles, “There's no point doing this until you build up more muscle mass. You're underweight.”

Damian looked away.

Natasha softened, easing her stance, “Come back in three hours or so, and I'll walk you through some tailored training regimes.”

Damian glanced back, “Thank you.”

Natasha nodded.

 

*

 

Glass tinkled under Damian's feet and the fresh shards flashed white.

Behind him, deep gouges cut into the wooden panelling, the thick stench of Manbat's saliva hung in the air, thick and rancid. Furniture overturned, the room wrecked. He wasn't technically allowed in here, for safety reasons.

The air was freezing, this high up. His window, or what was left of it, was level with the tops of some of the highest buildings, and if he strained he could see people working, and deep down below, cars passing like little brightly coloured beetles. His vision was littered with skyscrapers, sharp angles and thin clouds.

It was like being suspended in the sky.

His eyes were drawn by a flicker of movement. He searched the complicated horizon, scouring the skyscrapers. There—A helicopter swung around a tall building, huge and imposing.

Damian scrambled back, diving over the sofa.

An arrow shot past his ear and buried itself in the wood. A sharp hissing sounded as white gas poured from the vents in its sides.

Damian pawed quickly through the wreckage of his room, searching.

His senses dimmed, like someone was flipping off switches. His sense of smell snapped off, then his hearing suddenly went, his eyes watered and fuzzed.

He snatched his phone from under the table and slammed on the alarm.

 

*

 

The alarm pounded through the building, shaking the walls.

“ _Again?!_ ” Steve yelped, words swallowed by the shrieking sound. A plate shattered as Steve Rogers discarded it, vaulting over the table and thundering up the stairs.

 

*

 

The glass crunched under Jason's boots. The alarm throbbed through the floorboards and through the rubber souls of his boots, little glass crumbs jumped to the beat. He adjusted his gas mask and glanced over at Talia, “Grab Damian, I'll guard the door.”

Talia nodded, slipping a gas mask over her sleek hair. Above her, the white gas poured in the Manhatten air like smoke.

Jason loped over to the entrance hall, shouldering his gun.

The door exploded inward as a man twice Jason's size barrelled in. _God damn it_ , he thought, ducking behind a pillar as bullets tore into the wall, t _his is happening too fast_. There wasn't going to be enough time.

He watched the man falter and collapse, gasping and tearing at his throat, and Jason didn't wait for him to go still before snatching his gun and radio from him and tossing them behind a ruined sofa. The gas was already starting to disperse, barely visible in the cool apartment air. He couldn't use it to his advantage for long. He could already hear the thunder of steps from the lower floors.

Jason worked quickly, throwing over a sofa, upending a table and throwing every weapon that could be used against him across the other side of the room, away from the door and keeping his own weapons close to him.

He would survive. He had been in sticker situations than this. He zipped his jacket up and discarded his gas mask as the last of the gas slipped into the Manhattan morning. He just hoped Damian would too.

 

*

 

Talia pulled her son closer. His body was limp, but not lifeless, she could feel his chest rising and falling, his heart beating steadily. The sun streamed through the helicopter’s open doors and she felt the wind whip up around her, and for the first time in a long time, she felt alive.

 

*

 

It took them half-an-hour, maybe more. Jason was much more used to being on the other side of these sieges, considering how he shed hideouts compulsively. By the end of it he was bloody and bruised, cheek bleeding heavily. His head swam.

“Where is he, Jason,” Captain America asked, standing over him. He reminded Jason, oddly, of Clark—that stern, disappointed expression. Jason licked his bloody teeth.

“He's at the base now,” Jason huffed, “Probably.”

“How could you do it?” Iron Man asked, mask folding away from his face. His face was firm and emotionless, but his voice betrayed his anger. “How could you trick him like that? I thought you were his friend.”

Jason grinned, savagely. “Funny. I thought you were too.”

 

*

 

Damian woke up against the chill of stone. His head felt heavy and stuffed, like cotton wool had replaced his grey matter. His heartbeat thundered. He was in a cave of some kind, and as he stood up a blanket got caught under his feet. He had fallen out of a bed.

Harsh green lights gleamed along the corners of the ceiling, and as he followed them the cave narrowed and then opened up, into a wide arena. The ground beneath him turned from stone to dark gravel as he walked.

“My son,” Talia said, voice like silk. In the green light she looked strange. Inhumane. Damian hung back, reluctant to approach. She seemed… odd. Her eyes were dark and looked at him with the rapt attention one might look at a sign from god. Her gaze fixed on him, unwavering, unbelieving.

“Mother,” He said. “Where are we?”

Talia stopped walking. Her dark eyes watched him carefully. “Does it matter?” Talia brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, “You're here with me. We are reunited.”

Damian stepped forward. An odd feeling climbed in his chest, half-fear half-anticipation, like walking a tightrope. Anything might push him either way.

Talia put her hands on Damian's shoulders, glossy hair gleaming emerald green. Her grip was light and delicate. “My son. We are together again. We're a family.”

Damian swallowed thickly. “Mother. Where am I? How long have I been here?”

Talia's gaze darkened. “Why do you want to know?”

Damian said nothing.

Talia's hands crept higher over his shoulders, thumbs on his shoulder blades. “You're an awful child. You haven't seen your mother in years and the minute you do, you want to leave. The moment you laid eyes on me.”

Damian looked her in the eye, heart hammering.

Tears glinted like green glass in her eyes. She cupped his ruined cheek with her cold hand. Her nails scratched senseless skin. “You don't know what your death did to me.”

Damian watched a tear curve over faultless skin.

“You don't know,” Her hand ran over his neck, nails trailing his windpipe. “You don't know anything.”

Damian flinched back.

“You're a disgrace to the Al Ghul name,” Talia snapped, her voice suddenly sharp and brittle. “If that even is your name.”

Damian swallowed. “I'm sorry.”

Talia tilted her head, very slightly. Her perfect hair hung like cold black silk, pooling over her shoulders. “Sorry?”

Damian nodded, slightly.

She slapped him.

Talia flipped a great swathe of black hair over her shoulder, eyes black. “My son would never apologise.”

Damian gripped his face, the streaking cuts from his mother's nails burned like a brand. His whole face felt unbearably hot, while his fingers and toes became chilled and clammy. Feeling shut off in his fingers first, his feet, his legs.

Her nails, speckled with his blood, glinted a deep green. Laced with chemicals.

 

*

 

Light streamed in a straight bar through the deep cracks in the cave ceiling, lighting patterns across the sloping walls. The air was cold and quiet. Somewhere, a long way away, trees rustled and shifted in the breeze.

Damian woke hanging from the cave ceiling, spinning gently. He tested the ropes against his arms as discreetly as he could. He could just about reach the knife hidden close against his waist, and he figured with some straining he could cut the ropes. He stilled, some hope returning.

He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was his mother.

Talia stood at the pit's edge, gown falling around her in a million shades of green. She watched him turn impassively.

“Mother—?” Damian coughed, ribs straining against the ropes.

“Damian,” Talia lifted her head, her smooth features as beautiful and regal as he remembered. Whatever kindness he remembered from her had either been worn away by time or never existed in the first place. “Do you remember whose son you are? Whose grandson?”

Damian struggle to breathe, rasping. He shifted his weight and strained his neck, trying to keep Talia in his vision as he turned softly.

“You are my son. You are the son of the Dark Knight, grandson to Ra's Al Ghul,” She lifted her arms, “You are the perfect soldier, the perfect warrior. The blood of demons, the blood of wolves runs through your veins,” She dropped her arms, “and yet you fraternise with lowlifes and vain rich men.”

“Talia,” Damian huffed, “don't—”

“ _Don't?_ ” Talia shook her head, long hair waving like a black ocean. A laugh escaped her, like a private joke. “Don't? You really think asking me to stop will change anything?”

Damian fell silent.

“That's your problem,” She pointed, arm shaking slightly, “You're a wolf trying to live with sheep. They were scared of you so you knocked out all your teeth.”

Talia stopped, arm lowering. Her expression hardened, voice heavy and strong. “But even a wolf without teeth cannot eat grass. It just dies.”

Damian's eyes dropped to the pit below him.

“It's time you were reunited with your own kind,” Talia left, heels clicking over stone.

Damian was left alone. Him and the wolf that prowled below him.

 

*

 

“What do you mean _Jason's gone_?” Natasha snapped, shaking a fistful of the poor SHIELD agent's shirt. “You were supposed to watch him!”

The agent stuttered out a string of sounds before they finally condensed into a sentence, “He-hhe just escaped! It happened in an instance!”

Natasha released the agent, running a hand through her hair. She glanced at Tony, who was hanging his head over the sink like he was about to vomit. She didn't blame him. They had no intel on any Al Ghul hideouts in a twenty-mile radius and they'd just lost the only lead they had. It was enough to make anyone queasy.

Clint ducked his head around the door. “Um, dumb question but—” He scratched the back of his neck, “—I'm guessing none of you just borrowed my bike without asking? It's missing.”

 

*

 

Damian sliced through the last rope and plunged into the pit.

 

*

 

The landscape whipped past Jason's ears in an unsteady blur, the freezing wind burned straight into his bones. On either side of him, the landscape flattened, buildings grew further and further apart, trees sprang up and grass took over. He felt himself numbing. He weaved through traffic with a practised ease, as the familiar single-minded determination took over.

He leaned flatter against the motorcycle’s handlebars, urging the bike faster. He just wished he got there in time.

 

*

 

Damian's knees hit the floor first with a terrible crack. He swore and rolled to the side, pressing himself against the wall of the pit before he could even think properly. The smell of the pit was thick and foul.

The wolf turned to him, grizzled snout flaring. It was much uglier up close, matted fur spiked up in odd places and worn off in others. It drooled uncontrollably, a thick layer of saliva coated his uneven jaw. It walked awkwardly, favouring one side. How old was it? Grey sprinkled its coat, grizzled its snout. Ribs pushed against its slim sides. It looked pathetic.

Damian leant against the wall, eyeing it nervously. The wolf's stumpy tail brushed the other side of the pit, its eyes watched him sharply.

It lunged.

Damian stumbled away, head cracking against stone, knife scattering away.

The wolf turned on him, jaws closing over his arm.

Damian froze, heart thundering. Hard gums, slippery, clamped over his wrist. He shivered, dragging his arm back. The wolf barked after him, loose lips shaking. The wolf was toothless. He felt like laughing, but his heart still thundered too loudly for him to think too much about it.

The wolf snapped at him, lunging at him again. Its heavy front paws crashed against his chest, sending him cracking back against stone. He struggled to breathe as the beast loomed over him, dribbling. Without teeth the thing seemed even more fearsome, ugly and disgusting, sharp eyes watching him furtively. Its gums were a lurid red, blackened at the front.

He shoved a hand down its throat.

It gagged.

Out of its paws thumped him in the face—even de-clawed and weakened it was like being hit by a baseball bat. His arm was crushed inside it, its jaws slamming shut around his elbow. He could feel the wolf bruising him, tearing his muscles. He was waiting for a pop of his shoulder dislocating, or his arm to completely detach—neither happened.

It ended slowly. The wolf's haunches dropped onto its scrabbling legs, then the spine sagged. Finally the head bowed onto Damian's lap, the eyes glazing over.

He sat, the heavy, stinking body on his legs. He slowly pulled his arm from the beast's mouth, a dull ache sparking up along his elbow. Damian's mind came back to itself in moments, as his heart slowed. He couldn't look away from the glassy eyes of the wolf, its tongue lolling.

It felt like his heavy chest was full of water. He couldn't name it, but something was clear on the wolf's dead face. Something in the dullness of its eyes, in the ragged lips. His own breathing was the only sound in the pit. He pushed the wolf's corpse off his legs.

Damian set his eyes on the pit's walls, and glanced upwards.

A familiar figure loomed over the pit's edge.

“Need a hand?” Jason asked.

 

*

 

The city was restless at night. Lights spun and danced across the sides of the buildings, spilling reds, greens, golds that pooled together on the dark streets. The cars rumbled incessantly, the heavy sounds mixing with the music that poured out of the clubs and casinos to make a cacophony that was oddly easy to ignore.

Jason breathed a plume of smoke into the starless night, relishing in the sting of winter on the air. It had been weeks, a month maybe. He'd spent the time leading Stark around by the nose, waiting for him to snap, or for him to give up. Neither happened.

Lights burst into life above his head, dying him blue, before snapping to red, and snapping off. Jason flicked the last of his cigarette into the gutter, grinding it into the metal.

Jason walked past the bouncer with barely a glance. The moment he stepped through the door, it was so different from the cold bleached streets it was like stepping into another world. Warmth and light flooded his senses, the overhead lights were so bright he near flinched.

He shaded his eyes and glanced around the gaudy insides of the casino. Just left of where the rows of casino tables started, and beside a smallish, glittery replica of the great pyramids that doubled as a bar, Tony Stark sat uncomfortably at a table, an untouched fruity drink near his elbow. Jason smiled and waved, but Tony just glared at him.

Jason slid into the seat opposite him, snagging his drink and taking a sip. It was a weird mix of banana and tequila and he set it down decidedly, wrinkling his nose.

“I'm sick of this, Jason,” Tony glared.

Jason twirled the drink's umbrella around his knuckles.

“Look, do you even know where he is? It's been weeks,” Tony set both elbows on the table, “You don't want a ransom. You don't want favours, or anything material. What do you want?”

Jason raised an eyebrow, “I don't want anything.”

Tony frowned, “Then why are you doing this?”

“It's not about me,” Jason sighed and dropped the little umbrella back into the drink, “It's about _him_.”

Tony was about to speak when a tray off food suddenly dropped onto the table, followed by a young lad slipping into the seat next to them. Damian threw a fry into his mouth, grinning.

“Is anyone drinking that?” Damian asked, pointing to the fruity alcoholic drink.

“Yes,” Jason threw it back in one gulp, grinning.

“Damian,” Tony said, like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

“Hey Tony,” Damian grinned at him.

Tony just stared.

“Sorry about the wait,” Jason said, feeling sheepish for what was probably the first time in years. “I always thought you were an alright guy, I just didn't want SHIELD sticking their nose in again.”

Tony nodded, blankly. Some colour started to return to his face. “So you're not… are you still with the Al Ghuls? Did they take you back?”

Damian shook his head. “Some falcons you can't keep in cages. They'll have the sky or perish.”

“See you inherited their pretentiousness,” Jason mumbled. Damian thumped him under the table.

“So you're okay now? You're safe?” Tony asked.

Damian nodded, gingerly. His smile crinkled old scars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**the end.**


End file.
